THE FLIGHT OF THE PICKERINGS
John Grayson Heide
Copyright © 2008
FIFTEEN MILES DUE EAST OF DAYTONA BEACH, FLORIDA
“Damn!” Guy glanced sideways out his cockpit’s left window and winced at the roaring chop of a Navy Seahawk helicopter keeping pace at an aggressive distance. High above the blue-green waters of the Atlantic, Guy’s stalwart but aging Beechcraft Bonanza four-seater fretted forward like a nervous mackerel beside the efficient shark-like chopper. The helicopter’s pilot miraculously maintained the threateningly close distance between the weaving aircrafts while glaring back at Guy from behind dark wrap-arounds and steadily jabbing a finger at his earphones. Over the Beechcraft’s radio, an insistent message shrieked. “November Niner Niner Seven Zero Two, do you read me? Repeat! Do You Read Me?”
Further back along the fuselage, the chopper’s cargo door window framed the contorted face of a uniformed man waving and bouncing as if he were on a mini trampoline.