Helicopters without doors are draughty

Thump, thump, thump, the unique sound of a military Iroquois helicopter splinters the rural silence.  We take a break from our silent journey alongside the stream to scan the Kaimai Ranges silhouetted against a pastel blue sky.  The noise has arrived but the picture is still coming.  The sound of the rotors thumping their way through the daytime air penetrates our minds, desperate for a break in concentration.  A few moments later, we see a single Iroquois Helicopter heading north along the side of the ranges.   The camouflage disturbed by the helicopter movement.

Mick the Sergeant in charge of our Armed Offender Squad grabs his radio and calls base.

 “Why don’t we call the Army and get a loan of their chopper for a couple of hours,” he suggests to the boss. 

We are searching farmland just out of Waiharoa for an armed and dangerous escaped prisoner from Waikeria Prison.  During the night, the prisoner had burgled a farmhouse and taken a firearm.     He known for using firearms and so caution is our theme. 

The radio stays silent.  Mick mutters under his breath about talking to brick walls.  Mick is a Detective Sergeant, of the old school.  He has us all convinced he knows every criminal in the greater Waikato area as well as apprentice criminals.  His rugged complexion, with curly brown hair sticking outside his black beret in tufts combined with his solid build and hard-earned wrinkles makes his mid-fifties feel real.   Mick turned up at one incident with the flu and could not be bothered with the usual negotiation process because he wanted to go home to bed.  So he climbed over the fence we were hiding behind, coughing and sputtering just walked into the house and told the offender he was “a bloody fool” and then handcuffed him, walked out, handed his prisoner over and went home to bed.

Mick is a great Sergeant to work with, as he is very practical.  His suggestion of the helicopter makes sense to all of us, probably because we have been walking for hours.  The helicopter noise is diminishing, as it gets further away.  Mick scrambles up the stream bank and peers over the top.  He quickly slips back down to us.

“Another barn, over the ridge about fifty yards – Bruce give Cara a run and let her check this one out for us.”

My jet black German Shepherd bitch Cara is on her lead.  We crawl up the bank and I peer over the top.  It is flat farmland and there is an old unpainted corrugated hay barn about fifty yards away.  In between is one seven-stranded barbed wire fence.  Cara is to operate from either voice commands or hand signals.  This situation calls for hand signals.  I take her lead off and signal her to go forward.  She trots over the bank and starts to head towards the barn.  It is obvious she has identified the barn as the place to search. When she gets near the fence, she turns her head to check for the next hand signal and over the fence; she leaps.  She then speeds up and goes to the barn and inside.  We wait.  The riflemen are lying on the bank beside me with the guns trained on the barn.

We wait.  Eventually Cara comes out and starts to look around the paddock.  Her behaviour shows she found no human scent.  We all stand up and move with caution towards the barn.  We take turns climbing over the fence and the passing our firearms under the fence.  We move towards the barn and then inside.  There is no one.

Thump, thump, thump.  The sound is getting closer.  We look north and can just make out a dot getting bigger.  Mick answers his radio.

“Yes, we can come to base.  We will be there in less than ten minutes.”

Mick turns around and says, “Helicopter time boys.  They listened for a change.”

Our energy levels rise and we start to jog back to base camp.  Cara has never been in a helicopter so I am unsure what is ahead.

It takes us about fifteen minutes to arrive back at base and the helicopter is already there with the engine shut down.  Both the side doors are removed and lying in the paddock.

“Bruce, will Cara be okay in the helicopter,” asks Detective Inspector Phil. 

“Yes,” I reply confidently.

Then the young pilot swaggers over to us.  He is dressed in army camouflage overalls and his face is that of a pimply teenager.  He looks as though he must be no more than seventeen years of age. Slim build, about five foot six inches but with teenage confidence making him the Giant in Jack’s story.

“Your dog will behave in the helicopter?   There will be no doors on it and you will have to hold onto her when we do some of our manoeuvres or she will fall out.”  

I assure she probably has more experience than he does. 

“I have not had my lunch yet and I do not want her touching it.”

I advise him Police dogs eat on command and his lunch will be safe.

Squad members Neil and Laurie are to stand on the landing runners, outside the helicopter.  Mick, Cara and I are in the central part, directly behind the Pilot and co Pilot.  We all get into position inside and the engines fire into life.  With the doors off the noise is deafening.  The two pilots are okay because they had headphones on.  The helicopter shudders and kicks as the power builds up and without any warning, we go straight up.  A bit of warning is nice so I could tell my stomach what was happening.  Instead, my stomach stays on the ground while my body is airborne. Eventually the stomach decides to join the rest of me, but the re-union is not a happy one.

Mick hand signals the co-Pilot where he wants us to go.  We are well above our first barn, hovering.  In seconds the helicopter drops down, side on to the barn giving time for a quick look before we are back up to the point we started.  I think my stomach got the biggest fright.  It was still on the down journey when my body was going back up.  I am glad there is no mirror because I am positive I am green.

Within minutes, we have checked about five to six barns.  After the last one, the pilot decides to stay at fence height and fly directly to the next barn at this altitude.  This is exhilarating.  Up ahead is a stand of tall gum trees and so I brace myself for us going up and over them.  Instead, the pilot waits until the last minute, puts the helicopter on its side, and goes through the narrowest of gaps in the trees.  The draught from the helicopter breaks branches off the trees. The floor in the helicopter is sheet metal and for Cara there is no grip.  Luckily, I had her lead wrapped tightly around my hand, because Cara is just swinging in the breeze.  Her tail end almost knocks Neil of the runner.   Neil then described in colourful language what he thought of pimply faced Army pilots.

Once the helicopter levels I get Cara on her feet – I could swear she is smiling.  The look is one of “You are green boss, but I love this.”  I then hand signal the pilot that if he does a stunt like that Cara might have “Pilot Burger” for lunch.  The threat works and he settles down.  We are now searching the area in a more sedate fashion and I start to enjoy the trip.  The next barn we drop down I lean towards Neil to check inside the barn.  I feel the lead go tight, but think nothing of it.  We rise up again and the lead is still tight.

Then I feel a little jab in my ribs.  I look at Mick and he is struggling not to burst out laughing.  I am puzzled.  Then he points at the pilot’s lunch box.  It is completely empty and Cara is licking her lips. Mick and I both burst out laughing.  The pilots cannot hear us over the thump, thump, and thump of the rotor blade. 

We check out a large number of spots without finding our offenders and return to base.  Once the engines are off Mick offers our services to put the doors back on so we will not hold up the army any further.  We all say our farewells and the helicopter takes off to head back to its base in Auckland.  Once it is off, Mick and I fall over each other with laughter.

“What’s so funny,” asks Neil.  We tell him about the pilot’s lunch.  Neil went straight over to Cara and gave her a big hug.

“Good on you girl, you put that pimply little squirt in his place.”