The sky was dotted with puffy cumulus clouds, winds were out of the south, and the March sun was surprisingly hot. The fishbowl—the enclosed full-bubble plexiglas canopy of the helo—was going to be scorching. Tom was glad he’d stopped for an extra drink at the water fountain.
The aircraft tech rolled a large red fire extinguisher close to the helicopter, a safety measure at every engine start. Tom dropped his helmet on the right seat, donned his gloves and did a quick walkaround. In the distance, he could see Luke taking his turn in the Bedstead, and he decided he’d fly over there and watch for a bit.
Tom climbed into the left seat, strapped into the four-point harness, put on his helmet and plugged in his comm cord. He pulled the checklist out of his leg pocket and quickly ran through the pre-start. He circled a raised finger at the groundcrew, started the engine and then checked all systems. Satisfied, he gave a salute, and watched the tech roll the fire extinguisher clear.
Tom took one last close look around the instrument panel—he still found flying helicopters unnatural and liked to be extra careful—then radioed Ellington Ground for taxi clearance. With that, he began the pilot’s dance that makes helicopters fly.
In his left hand was the throttle. When he twisted it, like you would a motorcycle grip, the engine revved up. The Bell 47G only had 175 horsepower; with that little motor driving the two big spinning rotor blades overhead, it was all too easy to demand too much and over-torque the mechanical system.
The throttle was mounted on the end of a short pole, hinged at the far end. When he raised his hand, it changed the angle that the rotor blades above his head were biting into the air, making them lift harder. It was a simple, intuitive design—pull up, go up; push down, go down. Because it moved both rotor blades together, it was called the collective. Tom raised and lowered it once with the motor at idle, to make sure it was moving freely.
In his right hand, Tom held what looked and felt like the control stick in an airplane. Moving it around changed the angle of the rotor blades individually, to allow him to tip the helicopter forward and back, and to roll it left and right. Since the stick cycled each rotor blade through a full circle, it was called the cyclic. When he’d first seen the word, he’d pronounced it wrong, and had to learn to say it correctly. Sigh-click.
By pushing on the rudder pedals at his feet, he operated the small propeller mounted on the end of the long tail boom. It provided enough sideways force to counteract the spin of the main rotors, and let him fly in a straight line.
Tom took one last look around to make sure no one was near, and started raising the collective while twisting the throttle for more power. As the rotor blades lifted the helicopter’s skids off the pavement, he pushed with his left foot to keep from turning. His right hand moved the cyclic constantly, to keep perfectly level. It had taken a lot of practice with a patient instructor to learn how to hover, but now, with concentration, Tom was good at it.
He moved the helicopter clear of the ramp and switched radio frequencies. “Ellington Tower, this is NASA 948. I’d like to head over to observe the LLTV, and then work east of the field for thirty minutes or so.”
“Copy, 948, cleared as requested, no traffic in the pattern.”
Tom clicked his mic button twice in acknowledgment, turned right and made a beeline straight at Luke, who was just lifting off in the LLTV, setting up for another practice lunar landing.
“Luke, Tom here in the fishbowl. Okay if I stay off to the side and watch?”
“Sure, Tom. I’m going to be doing normal patterns.”
Tom maneuvered downwind so that his rotor wash wouldn’t disrupt Luke’s air. As Luke went through the landing profile, Tom mirrored the actions in his helo. On the real Moon landing, it would be him flying the LM, with Luke on his right, assisting.
Luke touched down smoothly.
Tom pushed his comm switch. “Not bad, for a Marine.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
“If you need any senior officer advice, just call. I’m headed east.”
“Roger that. Happy motoring.”
Tom chuckled. Just before he accelerated away towards Galveston Bay, he spotted Kaz standing where he had a good view of Luke’s training session. Tom nodded to him, and got a thumbs-up in response.
Under him now were hundreds of acres of cow pasture just east of Ellington Field. A good place to fly and not bother anybody, apart from some Texas longhorns. He climbed to 1,000 feet, bouncing in turbulence as the heat of the day roiled up the air, conscious of the sweat trickling down his sides. In the real LM, the guidance computers would automatically bring him close to the Moon’s surface. He’d take manual control 500 feet up, at 40 miles per hour, and 2,000 feet back from the landing site. They called it Low Gate, and he maneuvered the helo to set those conditions. Looking ahead, he chose a lone cow in an open area as his planned landing site.