Out of the mountains, but not out of trouble. Not by any definition. Harry’s gaze swept from right to left across the cockpit, watching the gauges, focusing on keeping the rotor RPM in the safe green arc, between 170 and 245. He’d flown Sikorskys before—a lot of them had what pilots called a “heavy” collective, meaning that if you didn’t hold it up manually, it was going to drop, effectively cutting thrust to the main rotor and taking the chopper down with it. Something you rather wanted to avoid. His left arm was numb, braced against his side as he grasped the collective—it felt like he was lifting the chopper up with one hand. Despite the engine noise, the deafening roar of gears behind his head, he felt Han before he saw him, his head poking up from beneath the co-pilot’s seat, from the narrow passageway leading down into the passenger cabin. “How is she?”
