Letters From the Grave

Prologue

Working on offshore oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico is a dangerous job, but traveling to and from the rigs by helicopter is, by far, the most dangerous aspect. Accidents happen almost every day. Most are minor but too often – they’re catastrophic for all aboard.

Oil platforms are often hundreds of miles from the coast, and helicopters transport workers to and from the mainland daily. The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) investigates numerous offshore helicopter crashes in the Gulf every year. Regrettably, most of the aircraft are lost and everyone is killed, so there is little evidence to pinpoint the causes. The usual conclusion of these investigations is Pilot Error, although weather conditions are virtually always cited as a contributing factor. Pilot error is by far the leading cause cited for helicopter crashes in the Gulf oil industry, regardless of the actual cause.

There are more than three thousand oil platforms, operating in the Gulf of Mexico with thousands of workers flying back and forth twice per month. Bad weather and unpredictable wind conditions make flying over the water particularly hazardous. There is almost never a place to land during emergencies. When a helicopter gets into trouble over water, it is usually lost and never recovered. The sea and sharks consume all evidence. The brave pilots that fly every day, often on the fringes of hurricanes or other bad weather, are chancing fate daily. Supplying oil from the Gulf is dangerous business.

The Nightmare

The dream penetrated his resistance as it always did. Jake rolled with the damp sheet sticking to his body before a spasm sent him onto the floor, clearing the nightstand of its table lamp and alarm clock radio. He pushed himself to a semi-sitting position, allowing the demons to escape again into the clouds of fading memories. His head was bleeding from the fall and hurt from the copious amount of bourbon he’d downed, alone, before collapsing in bed. He tried to reassemble his nightstand, climbing back under the covers, hoping to get at least another hour’s sleep before dawn.

This scene had replayed itself off and on for three decades since the jungles of South America. It was a psychological reconstruction of the same tragedy, over and over again. He’d been shot down twice on counter-drug missions in the Mountains of Columbia and Honduras as a young Army Warrant Officer, but the nightmare evolved from a single mission. It wasn’t the most horrific experience of his combat tours, but through his own bravado he’d lost his best friend, the only friend he’d allowed close to him in the Army.

Jake had gone to junior college after high school before enlisting in the Army Warrant Officer program and was two years older than Bobby Lowe. Bobby had enlisted immediately after high school. Both boys wanted to be pilots, and the Army gave them the opportunity to do so without graduating from a four-year college as the other services required. Their visceral search for adventure, plus an effective advertising campaign by the Army, induced them to choose a program that ultimately trained forty thousand young people in the field of helicopter air assault – the modern cavalry. After flight training at Ft. Wolters, Texas, then Ft. Rucker, Alabama, Jake had preceded Bobby to U.S. Army South Command by six weeks, making him the senior pilot.

They were assigned to Joint Task Force Bravo (JTF-B) headquartered at Soto Cano Air Base, Honduras, where they shared quarters in a tent with meshed walls, canvas top and a wood floor. Everything was crude at the camp, and, when they weren’t flying, most of the company worked fortifying the perimeter and digging new latrines. The tropical heat was more severe than anyone had experienced in the states, and there was no air conditioning at the base camp. Humidity levels were so extreme that perspiration flowed continuously. It was impossible to dry off even after showering. The only time they got a break from the oppressive heat was flying at altitude.

Jake didn’t know Bobby before Honduras. The cot Bobby got as the new guy had belonged to another pilot who had been killed in action, KIA, supporting operations against drug smugglers. As new guys, they shared a common bond from the beginning. Two weeks after Bobby arrived, Jake became Pilot in Command of his own helicopter when more senior pilots completed their tours. His promotion came after recommendations to the company commander by pilots who flew with Jake as their copilot. Jake turned twenty-two during the first month in country, which was about median age for the men in the camp. Bobby was twenty.

A couple months after becoming a Command Pilot, Jake was flying a Black Hawk MH-60L gunship in the mountains of central Columbia when his ship began taking ground fire. Too low to roll out, he pulled the collective control up hard and twisted the throttle to full power, trying to maneuver away from the enemy. He could hear the gunners, firing the M60 machine guns as he pushed hard left on the cyclic, banking just over the trees when the windshield and instruments exploded in front of him. His copilot was dead with half his face blown away, and a gunner was hit in both legs when machine gun bullets ripped a seam through the belly of the chopper.

He radioed for help from the other gunships, which were already firing on the enemy, but it was too late to save his crew. The gunner died en route as Jake raced at top speed back to base. He had flown ten combat missions in six weeks, and these were his first casualties. He radioed ahead that he was declaring a medical emergency, but there was nothing that could be done for the dead soldiers.

After minor medical attention and debriefing with the company CO, Jake learned that Bobby would be flying copilot with him before getting his own ship. Depressed and unnerved, Jake leaned on Bobby heavily for rationalization and moral support, something he had never expected to do.

Over the next weeks, sharing numerous engagements, the men became emotionally attached. The strain was too great to carry alone. Both learned to cry and laugh together, forming a sibling kinship that would bond them forever.

Bobby was ready to transition to his own Blackhawk when they went on their last mission together. It was a night operation into a jungle near the Columbian border to extract a military unit that had been ambushed. En route, Bobby handled radio communications while they flew at three thousand feet to avoid ground fire. They saw llamas, migrating in the moonlight, providing unexpected entertainment to an otherwise dangerous mission. Tension was high, heading into a firefight at night in rough terrain, so lessen the strain, they discussed their prior lives in the States to deflect their thoughts. Jake said, If we don’t get back to the real world someday, who’s getting your insurance money? Mine’s going to my mother.

Bobby chuckled, It’s my mother, too, but I might need to change that if my girlfriend turns out to be pregnant.

Okay. Sounds like you were busy on leave after Rucker.

Yeah. I showed you Julie’s picture. She’s a real doll, and we’re getting married when I get home. All my pay is going in the bank so we can buy a house.

Man, are you nuts? You’ll barely be in your twenties. You need to live a little before marriage. Let’s go on R&R in Rio together, and you can fall in love every night if you want to.

Nah, I’m gonna marry Julie, not because I have to, but ‘cause she’s the finest girl, woman, I’ve ever known. I mean, I was a loser in high school, never had a serious girlfriend and never got laid! But in the summer at Wolters for basic, I met her at Lake Mineral Wells, and we were together every day I could get off. No shit, every day for the whole summer. She’s going to college now.

Well, good for you, buddy. If you don’t get back from here, I promise to visit her and keep up your good work!

Bobby punched Jake’s shoulder as they both laughed.

On approach to the mountain coordinates, Bobby was able to make radio contact with the ground force and exchanged call signs. They approached a small valley from the southeast with information that the Columbian Commander and his radioman were surrounded part way up the northern ridge, under dense jungle canopy. Bobby radioed, Tigerman, this is Sidekick 404, do you read? Over.

Within two seconds, the reply came, 404, this is U.S. special advisor (Army Ranger) ‘Romeo’ to TigerMan team, what is your position? Over.

Romeo, we are entering the valley south of your position, ETA in one minute. Do you have ground clearance for helo extraction? Over.

With loud gunfire in the background, the response was, 404, we have a small clearing, but we’re surrounded and can’t assure safe landing. Over.

Okay, Romeo, wait one.

In the cockpit Bobby pressed the intercom button, sounding hesitant, Jake, what do you think, man? It sounds tight for a night pick up under fire.

Jake knew he had dodged fate a few times before but had always followed his orders. Bobby, we’re not leaving those guys down there if we can find them.

Roger that, pilot. Jake felt apprehension in Bobby’s response.

Speaking to the two gunners and Bobby, Jake said, Keep a keen eye open guys. We can’t tell the greaser’s from the good guys unless they fire at us.

Banking right while losing altitude approaching the hillside, Jake asked Bobby to help find the LZ. Bobby radioed, Romeo, can you blow smoke or otherwise identify? Over.

Negative 404, (pause for gunfire) we got beaucoup bad guys everywhere. Can’t pop smoke. I hear you southeast of our spot. You’re close, look for a small clearing. I’ll walk you in. Over?

Bobby responded, Roger that, Romeo.

Below the trees, muzzle flashes were lighting the jungle like headlights from a dozen cars, flashing underneath.

The radio crackled,404, you’re above us. Can you see the opening in the treetops? Over.

Without lights on the helicopter, the Blackhawk was almost invisible from the ground, but the flight crew could see the hole in the green carpet under them in the slivered moonlight. Jake pressed the intercom, Okay Bobby, were going down there, tell Romeo we’ll touch for five seconds only.

Jake, man, don’t do it. The slot’s too tight for our rotors!

Jake responded, I’ve got it under control, hang on and use the Minigun. The Minigun is a 7.62mm, multi-barrel Gatling-style machine gun firing up to 4000 rounds per minute and powered by the helicopter’s electrical system. It attaches to a swiveling pod outside the aircraft. It’s particularly useful in dense jungle to repel attackers hidden in the foliage near the landing area.

Bobby started to protest, but kept his mouth shut while switching the master arm switch on the Minigun to the firing position. Jake said, Bobby, confirm with Romeo which way they will approach.

After Bobby’s query, Romeo replied, We’re uphill, north side of the clearing.

Roger that, Romeo. Get ready to move, we don’t plan to be a lamb down there. Over

You got it, 404. Out.

Jake pressed the intercom, talking to the two crewmen manning the door guns, Men, our guys are coming from the north. Hose down everything else.

With that, Jake pulled back slightly on the cyclic to hover and simultaneously pushed the collective to begin their descent straight down through the trees.

Bobby yelled, Jake, it’s too tight, we could die doing this!

Jake ignored him, determined to save the men below. His concentration was focused entirely on descending straight down through the trees. He clenched his teeth, knowing that bullets would be flying through the bird at any second. As the fuselage settled below the treetops, the four-blade rotor overhead swept through the branches, hitting one tree hard enough to send a four inch thick stump flying in front of them. They were flying a giant weed whacker. Shredded leaves and branches swirled inside all the openings in the helicopter. Bobby looked around nervously with his hand on the gun controller. His survival instincts had kicked in, and he was not comfortable with someone else, even Jake, driving the ship. His gaze spanned left and right, but night and the huge compost heap swirling around them obscured his vision. Jake kept going down, and it felt like suicide to all aboard.

The scene changed rapidly as automatic muzzle flashes came from all directions. The gunners in the back were firing in long bursts, returning fire. Jake did a magnificent job, ignoring the bullets passing around them, some hitting the aircraft. He just prayed that the engine and compartment armor did their jobs.

When the helicopter hit the ground, only the uphill, northern wheel, touched. Jake kept the power at full military setting, not letting the craft settle. Even with noise everywhere, he heard yelling in the back as the thud of men landing on the deck was felt in the flight controls.

Bobby stopped firing and whirled around to yell, Is everyone aboard!

Jake couldn’t hear the response when Bobby yelled, Jake, it’s time to go! We gotta go man! Get the hell out of this shit hole!

Jake yelled back, Did we get everyone!

Hell, man, I don’t know, let’s go!

Not till all are aboard!

Scared and angry, Bobby spun around in the cockpit, fanning fire from the Minigun in a ninety degree arc ahead of them. From the right side, an enemy jumped against Bobby’s door, dropping a grenade between his legs before tumbling away in the darkness.

Bobby screamed, Shit, grenade! Grenade! He released his safety harness and began fumbling for the grenade by his feet. The burning fuse gave off intense light, threatening their night vision. It took less than a second for him to grasp it and hurl it back through the window frame that had already been blown out by gunfire when they landed, but too much time had elapsed, and it exploded only feet from his face. Both pilots were blasted with the shock, but Bobby had been closer and absorbed the shrapnel. He was thrown into the seat like a pigeon hit by a twelve-gauge shotgun blast, dead center. Jake could feel shredded tissue and blood spatters on the side of his face.

He pulled hard on the collective and controlled the cyclic masterfully, rising back up through the cavern they carved in the trees entering this hell. Pulling with all his strength, he willed the aircraft to shoot up faster. The gunners were back in action firing from both sides. At least they were still able to shoot. He had no idea if Romeo and his team were all aboard. He looked skyward, again chopping through thin branches, grasping for the open starlit sky above. Tears formed as wind blew through shattered windows. He refused to look sideways, trying to deny that Bobby was gone. He was just stunned and would grab the flight controls in a minute, when the daze wore off.

It was not going to happen. Bobby had died instantly that night. Jake never forgave himself, hearing Bobby’s pleas for the rest of his life. Jake’s vanity had killed his friend, his brother. For the rest of his tour, he never befriended anyone else. He was a loner for the rest of his Army career. He went through Ranger training, but spent most of his time flying SpecOps (special operations) missions.

Cold Sweat

He finally threw the sheets aside and squinted without his reading glasses at the clock radio next to him. It was 4:02AM, early even for him but too late to sleep more.

He braced against the chair, knocking the ashtray on the floor then stubbed a toe shuffling in the darkness down the hall to the only bathroom in his small ranch house. Switching on the light, he was startled by the same face he’d seen for years. He looked old. His red nose was the predominant feature below his bloodshot eyes. He peered closer, then stepped back, trying to find remnants of the young man he remembered in dreams, the man in the nightmare.

Using one hand for balance on the sink, he ran some water, waiting for it to warm before splashing his face. The fact that most of it ran to the floor or missed his skin entirely didn’t matter, since no one else used the facilities anyway. His parents had visited years earlier, before they died. He was alone in the world. Staring at his wet features in the fractured glass, he wondered if there was still time to regain some youthfulness and lose the crags on his face. Thirty years of chain smoking and excessive alcohol left his skin grey and stained. His gray-brown hair was still full thanks to good genes from his mother’s side. Except for the color, it still looked good combed over. He needed to loose thirty pounds.

It was a frequent ritual. He went through it most mornings, and it always ended by committing to start reconditioning himself - soon. Fortunately, his medical exams were good enough to fly commercially, the only profession he knew.

He brushed his teeth and ran the shower before returning to his bedroom for clean underwear and socks. He still had a few clean things, but the stack of laundry on the floor was growing. Living alone for decades, he never rushed to finish domestic duties.

After showering and shaving, he dressed in one of his vintage green Nomex® flight suits before going to the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. It was still dark when the percolation started, and he went out the front door to get the morning paper near the driveway. The delivery van was never accurate, throwing the folded paper at speed. It was useless to complain since he was the only person in the neighborhood who even got the paper, which would be happy if he cancelled it. He was barefoot, which was foolish in the steamy Louisiana morning when the snakes prowled around, but he disregarded the danger. In a couple hours, he’d be flying across the Gulf toward oil rigs beyond the horizon, where the danger was a watery grave and sharks. Pilots went down in the Gulf so frequently that the news media didn’t even report most crashes. The bodies and helicopters were usually never recovered.

The paper was in the drainage swale by the road, partly soaked. Returning to the kitchen, he tossed it on the chipped Formica table and pulled a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. Living alone on the Gulf Coast, he kept everything perishable in the cooler. His normal breakfast was toast with peanut butter. He chuckled to himself that George Washington Carver would be grateful for the support. While the bread toasted, he sat with a glass of milk, scanning the headlines with his Costco reading glasses. His vision was still perfect, except for small print at arm’s length.

All professional pilots are amateur meteorologists, and he found nothing else of interest before settling on the weather section. The National Weather Service was forecasting an active hurricane season based on water temperature patterns in the Atlantic. After flying the rigs for eight years, he was dreading each summer more and more.

Katrina had been unbearable. He had refused to fly one shift after eighteen hours in the cockpit. The pilot’s first duty was safety, and he declared himself unsafe to fly without sleep that day. He had never gotten along with the owners at his company, and they weren’t happy about his refusal to fly missions that got them triple billing rates during any crisis. The pilots got nothing extra, despite the danger. He rescued dozens, following the storm and shuttled in and out of Houma airport amidst hundreds of other emergency aircraft with no tower operations. It was as dangerous as any military operation he’d been on.

He had only taken seven hours off, but the owners of the company saw it as disloyalty. Screw them! He didn’t need the job anymore. The only reason they didn’t fire him was because the military had stopped producing enough pilots, and the newer Officers were paid better now. They stayed in the Army until retirement. None of the new breed needed to fly for minimum wages, as he did in the beginning. Owners of companies like Commercial Helicopters (CHI), his employer, got rich harnessing young men the Army had trained to fly. The Vietnam-era pilots were the original group to exploit, which was the main reason the air-taxi industry grew so rapidly in the Gulf. But now, after most had retired, lost their medical certificates or died, experienced helicopter pilots were scarce. The industry pushed pilots to fly too many hours at low wages. Flying was in the pilots’ blood. When time weary and beyond retraining, they lived near poverty levels, doing what they loved, focusing on a retirement that would never happen for most of them.

Jake had been fortunate in a way. He’d never married and even at his meager wage plus his Army retirement pay, he was able to pay off his mortgage and make other tangible investments. The house wasn’t much, and Louisiana property values wouldn’t allow him to ever consider moving elsewhere, but the place was his free and clear with taxes below a thousand dollars a year. His truck was almost twenty years old. Without frills, he could keep replacing engines and other parts from junkers, doing the work himself. His wealth, if you could call it that, was in three large gun vaults in the back bedroom. One had guns in it, a collection begun as a child; but, the rest were filled with an amazing collection of gold coins and gold commemorative pieces and small ingots collected since his first paycheck. He had begun subscribing to the mint publications while in the military and bought almost every coin or medallion offered for investment. He often chuckled that they represented the most secure investment because no one could get the safes out of the house. Even when he was on extended flight circuits, gone for several days along the Texas Gulf, he never worried about losing the safes. The house could burn down without affecting his collection. In total, he figured the safes contained close to a million dollars due to increases in the value of gold over the years.

Finishing the paper, he turned off the coffee pot and the lights and locked the back door behind him as he walked to the carport. He thought, damn, another soaking day, I’ll never get used to this. As he stepped up into the cab of his F150 and started the engine, he wiped the sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve. He wasn’t required to wear the Nomex gear, but it was his last mental connection to his youth as an Army pilot. That night, he’d check his blood pressure again, knowing the elevated temperature would push him near the limit for flying. The only time he didn’t drink himself unconscious at night was when his license was in danger of suspension. He would need to lose weight before his annual physical in the Fall. Smoking also contributed to the problem, but he refused to think about quitting that.

The old pickup started quickly, and he backed out of the narrow driveway onto the street before remembering to turn on the headlights. With a cup of coffee steaming in his left hand, he shifted through the manual transmission using his knees to steer. At this dark hour, there was no other traffic to worry about. He left it in second gear before coasting to a stop only a block away to pick up a rider. Will Ryan had joined CHI a few months earlier as a mechanic, and Jake enjoyed his company on the twenty minute ride to the airfield. Will had an old pickup, but he said the transmission was shot. Even though the mechanics made more money than rookie pilots, there was a hierarchy of respect for the men who actually flew over water days and nights, sometimes in the worst weather imaginable. The pilots routinely risked their lives to move workers off the rigs during storms. The esteem of the job had a lot to do with the reason men wanted to fly. There were no women pilots at CHI because the pay was low, and the schedule wouldn’t permit raising a family.

Jake parked at the curb, and the inside lights were turned off as Will closed the front door of his old rental cottage. It was starting to mist, so the mechanic jogged across the lawn and jumped into the passenger side saying, Mornin’, Jake. Thanks for pickin’ me up, man. This would not be a day for my cycle.

Yeah, the weather service is forecasting morning showers and a steamy afternoon. Crank the window down some, Will. I don’t have any AC in this bucket.

Okay, but we could get wet.

Hey, a little dampness in the breeze will feel good.

They rode on, mostly in silence, listening to the news station as Jake finished his coffee. Approaching the field, Will said, 067N is going down for her annual today, so you’ll need to use one of the other helo’s until we get the old bird checked out.

Jake reflected, Yeah, the controls are pretty loose and the tail rotor is sloppy.

I’ll get it all inspected and she’ll fly like a new bird when she’s all fixed up. Jake knew Will was just a shop helper, but he liked to brag.

CHI was not the most safety conscious operation on the Gulf Coast but six hundred horsepower Bell 407 helicopters cost almost two million dollars, and they would never risk losing one in the Gulf to save a few bucks on maintenance. The FAA had mandatory annual inspections, but the more important assessments of air worthiness came from the pilots. Time in the air, mixed with corrosive sea air and harsh Gulf Coast weather contributed to faster metal fatigue. Equipment failures were sometimes unpredictable with manufacturer calculations made under normal operating conditions. The Bell Ranger number 067N needed a complete physical exam and some surgery by Jake’s experienced assessment. Despite his difference with management, whom he avoided, the best helicopter in their fleet was entrusted to him. He was their top pilot.

Jake and Will separated after parking outside the operations hangar. Jake went to the dispatcher, Bill Jones, who was his only real friend on the staff. Bill (BJ) was several years older than Jake, but had failed his medical exam the year earlier, so he’d taken the desk job, hoping to keep earning a salary for another seven years before claiming Social Security. He liked Jake because they had both honed their flight skills in the Army, BJ in Vietnam, Jake in the Drug Wars.

Mornin’, BJ. Jake saw his buddy, sitting head down, working on the morning flight assignments.

Looking up, BJ responded, Hey, Jake, so you were able to rise and take a deep breath for one more day on this earth. Good to see you.

Yeah. Looks like a beautiful day for flying if you’re a penguin.

Penguins don’t fly, Jake. They just flap their wings to impress the girls.

Isn’t that why we fly!

BJ retorted, Yeah, right. I see more ladies walking around the airfield while sunning myself than you ever see flying out there. Gee, I wonder if those Army recruiting posters were phony?

I don’t know. All I can say is no girls ever looked at me twice as a pilot -- even when I was worth looking at!

Heh. Well, it’s fun to dream about anyway. Since neither of us ever found a woman desperate enough to marry, I guess there won’t be a second generation of fools bred for this work. Anyway, you’ll be in 0978E today while Rube’s on leave to San Diego, seeing his sick mother.

Yuck, that’s the oldest Long Ranger in the fleet. The engine’s rusty!

I know, but it’s got a new set of inflatable’s, and I know you like to fish.

Where to?

Head down to Port Arthur for a 0730 pickup, flying to platform F27. Two mechanics with tools, so watch your gross (gross weight limit for the helicopter).

Roger that. Jake took the logbook from a cubby below the assignment board and went out to the flight line to pre-flight the helicopter.

0978E was first flown in the 1960’s and was acquired by CHI about ten years ago after heavy use and several complete overhauls during its lifetime. It was past its theoretical life but continued to pass annual inspections. The pilots knew it would end up at the bottom of the Gulf someday.

Jake went out to the helipad and opened the door of the helicopter, placing the log book and his helmet on the seat before performing a pre-flight walk around. He checked all the rotor edges, the fluids, the fuel and made sure all the hatches were secure. There were no leaks and everything looked okay, so he sat in