Snake Typhoon!. Billie Jones
cups of decaf and herbal teas. Leans over his desk with her buxom breasts popping out all over the place while she throws glances my way. I don’t even get a look in at his carefully coiffed hair, which he constantly flicks with his manicured hands.
She’s like Good-time Barbie, with her cleavage spilling out all over the place, her inappropriateness making an uncomfortable heat spread through my body.
And Jay, well, he’s more like Safari Ken. With his regulation-length shorts and his khaki shirt, which he leaves unbuttoned one hole under the required minimum (I do like a man who lives on the edge), not to mention the thick beige socks he scrunches down into his limestone-coloured desert boots. He has fine golden hair on his arms, but his legs are strangely hair-free. Must help in the field, I guess. Probably trying to avoid chafing or something else hairy-leg related. I picture myself running my hands down his smooth tanned skin, then push the vision away. I’m invisible to him. Always stuck in Cindii’s curvaceous shadow, cuddling a King Brown I’ve rescued from a day-care centre, or purring to a vibrant green tree frog who’s lost his way.
Anyway, back to the task at hand. I’m roaring towards the heliport; time is of the essence. I’m not scared of flying in choppers, but most of my crew are, which I know is the main reason I landed the gig. I’ve even thought about getting my pilot’s licence so in future I can fly myself, but that would take some careful budgeting on my salary.
Pulling into the small car park, I flash my badge to the guard at the gate. He nods and pushes a big button, allowing me access to the hangar. I feel a little bit special that I get to park my dinged up car near the limos and prestige cars that line the Tarmac. I ignore the frowns of the stylishly dressed women waiting silently with their designer holdalls sitting at their feet. I’m guessing they’re designer labels, by the way they give my battered mountaineering backpack the once over and stand closer to their glittery, golden mini suitcases. Cindii is a fan of those fancy bags, I know, because I’m constantly blinded by the gleam that shines off the metal labels when I’m walking behind her, watching her swing her hips like a catwalk model. It’s quite a safety hazard.
In the distance, a bright-yellow chopper sits on the Tarmac, like a huge dragonfly. I hoist my backpack over my shoulder and head towards the helicopter. Time for me to switch on. The pilot gives me a half-hearted wave as I jump aboard. He’s tanned to a leathery brown and has huge biceps fighting the fabric of his flimsy T-shirt; good to know I’ve got some muscle behind me if we get into trouble up in the air.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Kez, nice to meet you.”
He ignores my proffered hand and looks over my shoulder.
I turn too, and see nothing but the gleam from the damn designer bags.
“Lost something?” I ask.
“Where is everyone else?” he says, frowning.
“Everyone else?”
His jaw clenches. “Yes, your team?”
“My team are on other missions. Why? I’m here for recon, and then I’ll call in if I need support.”
He rubs two fingers over his moustache hair. He looks like a Magnum, P.I. wannabe. “Do you even know what you’re up against?”
Here we go, I get this a lot. Because I’m female. Obviously in the eyes of some men I can’t wrestle newts, or take down blue-tongue lizards, because I’m a moderately attractive woman, and extremely athletic to boot.
Hands on hips and using my most authoritative voice, I say, “Look, I’m on a time limit here. Can we get going?”
He sits down and massages his moustache again. Really, we don’t have time for this.
“I’ll take you, but if I see anything resembling a typhoon, I’m turning back,” he says in a very surly way.
The weather is unseasonably wintery for summer, I admit. But I think someone’s a tad on the delusional side. I know full well we don’t get typhoons in Australia, and feel confident that if he keeps fingering his moustache so lovingly he might fall asleep and I’ll get a chance to fly a chopper without the hassle of having to pay for the privilege. With an almighty grunt I pull the door down and lock it into place.
The chopper rotor blades start, the drum beat whooshing sound excites me as we make our way into the drizzly silver sky. Drops of rain suicide on the windscreen with a splat, and the throb of the engine sounds almost like a backing riff of a theme song, something to galvanise me for the battle ahead.
I stoop low in the small cabin and rush to the passenger seat. “Right, it’s go time.”
The pilot nods, and we ascend quickly through thick clouds which scatter like smoke from the force of the blades. Below me, the airport shrinks as we rise, trucks and cars buzzing along like a trail of ants. The metropolitan area looks like a map, the colours melding as one into a great big brown and green canvas with tiny white dots: houses and industrial buildings the only sign of civilisation. To my right, the deep-blue of the Tasman Sea looks like a ruffled blanket.
Dragging my gaze back, I scan the control panel, wondering what all the buttons are for. There’s something seriously sexy about helicopters. Goosebumps break out over my body, but it takes a moment for me to realise it’s because it’s suddenly arctic inside the small space, and not the thought of chopper sex that’s viscerally affecting me. I’m just about to ask the pilot if he feels it too, when he yells, “Oh my God!” His eyes have widened so far they look like golf balls, as he lifts a shaky finger and points to something in the distance. “They were right!” he cries before I’m able to focus on what he’s seeing. I curse my short-sightedness as I fumble in my backpack for my glasses.
“Don’t panic,” I say in a steady voice, following step one of the guidebook: How to soothe people in times of crisis.
Glasses found, I plonk them on and turn towards the pilot, who is trembling uncontrollably. I need his expertise, so my first priority is his health. His face is a shade whiter than ivory and his neck has broken out in angry red spots, which he itches with a maniacal gleam in his eye. He stops scratching once he draws blood and hugs his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth, muttering, “We’re going to die!”
I try to dampen my excitement that I’m about to get my chance to fly the helicopter, remembering that I’m on duty. I search my memory for what the manual would say to do in this situation. First, I press the big white button that says AUTO PILOT and turn it, glumly. It’s sort of not fair a button gets to man the chopper before me, but I am a professional and work comes first.
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