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The white Sikorsky S-76C+ touched down gently onto the big ship’s hydraulic elevator. Before the rotor stopped, the floor dropped out from underneath the chopper. It began to descend via the hangar’s massive elevator.
The three ex-Marine pilots who had been suddenly, and to them, inexplicably hired by billionaire Marshall Hail, looked out the helicopter’s windows in amazement. Other than a United States aircraft carrier, they had never seen anything like this, and particularly not on a privately owned vessel.
Marcus Walker asked, “What the hell are those weird white cylinders on the deck?”
Damon Hooper responded with, “I’m not sure, but I noticed each marked with a radioactive symbol. My guess is they aren’t life rafts.”
Two of the three men laughed. The third pilot, known to the others only as Topher, exclaimed, “Hell, I will partake in any buoyant apparatus if my alternative is being consumed by indigenous sea-dwelling creatures.”
Marcus and Damon had become accustomed to Topher’s banter. The way he talked was the way he talked was just—was just—well different from anyone else they had encountered. They wouldn’t categorize his phrasing as smart, necessarily. It was more like—well, Topher’s conversational style was just somehow different.
As the men continued their ride downward inside the slow-moving elevator, Damon commented, “What do you think is going on with children flying this ten-million-dollar bird?” Though disconcerted at first by the ages of their escorts, they had quickly appreciated and accepted their skill.
Marcus said, “Man, when I was sixteen I had two paths. Either go to jail or go to jail. These kids don’t know how good they have it.”
Damon looked frustrated, and said, “No, I mean like, why are teenagers flying this chopper? Don’t tell me I’m the only one here who thinks it’s weird.”
Topher spoke, “This entire scenario is baffling. First, we get the vilest news of our professional lives, being dishonorably discharged from the Marines; and then, we get a proposition from a billionaire to join his menagerie.”
Topher didn’t speak with an accent. Each of his words was precise and distinct. His voice cut cleanly over the drone of the Sikorsky’s engines winding down.
Once the lights snapped on within the cavernous hangar deck, the men sat back in their seats, stunned by what they saw.
Marcus exclaimed “Holy...”
And Damon ended his friend’s sentence saying, “...smokes!”
Topher echoed, “Holy smokes, indeed.”
Parked on either side of the chopper were dozens of crazy-expensive helicopters.
“Wow!” Damon breathed as the elevator came to a stop. “I knew Hail was loaded, but this is, like, LOADED.”
Marcus asked in a monotone, “Do you think Hail has a money room like Scrooge McDuck that he swims in every day?”
“Two things:” Damon asked. “First, who the hell is Scrooge McDuck? Second, what would you know about swimming? You’re black.”
“I’m insulted,” Marcus said, feigning indignation.
“Quite racist,” Topher responded.
“Please tell me I didn’t hurt your feelings,” Damon asked sarcastically.
“If this ship has a basketball court, I will make you pay for that comment,” Walker shot back.
“Reverse racism,” Topher chimed in.
The teen pilots, who had not been listening to the marines’ conversation on their headsets, exited through their own door of the aircraft. The Marines watched as the girl walked back to the side door of the helicopter. With one great tug, she slid it open.
The men regarded the 97-pound female dressed in a black flight suit wearing a helmet with a dark retracting visor. A small microphone projected from the corner of the helmet in front of her mouth.
“Are you guys ready to meet your new boss?” she asked them.
“Yeah, let’s go see McDuck,” Walker told the girl. “I gotta bone to pick with the guy.”
The girl said nothing. Instead she turned and was joined by the young man who had been piloting the chopper. As the teens led the way they unstrapped their helmets.
The Marines piled out of the Sikorsky and fell into step behind the youngsters. The military men had nothing with them. No luggage. No personal effects. Not even a cell phone. They had been told Hail would have everything they needed. Two of the soldiers left girlfriends back in Washington, D.C. However, they couldn’t tell their loved ones when they would return, so little was known about this new job. In that respect, it wasn’t much different from being sent on tour into ravaged countries. But, at least tours had definitive durations.
As the men walked through the hangar, they couldn’t help but admire the helicopters Hail had assembled. AgustaWestland, Eurocopter, Sikorsky, Bell—all the big names in helicopter manufacturing were represented. Many different passenger-friendly models of each brand sat like priceless Ming vases on the shiny floor of the hangar.
“What does this guy do again?” Damon asked his fellow Marines.
“Some type of energy startup,” Marcus said.
“Marshall Hail is a Nobel Prize winner in physics,” Topher said. “His most notable contribution is his patented high-temperature, corrosion-resistant ceramic coating that lines the parts of his traveling wave nuclear reactors.”
“Oh,” Damon and Marcus said in unison, mocking Topher.
“He’s quite brilliant,” Topher added.
“If you remember correctly, he got us all drummed out of the corps,” Marcus told Topher.
Damon answered back, “Yeah, but when he gave the order, we could have told him no, but we didn’t. We all wimped out.”
Topher said, “Well, I, for one, am happy to be out of the military, and I’m looking forward to working for Mr. Hail. I’m certainly interested in finding out what type of work he has in mind for us.”