The Chopper Floppers

Lots of vodka.

I was working out in Western Siberia as a ‘hired gun’ (geological-geophysical-drilling) consultant back in the early wee ‘90’s, pretty much right after the wall fell. I was doing time with a Russian oil company trying to de-Sovietize some of their fields and as such, worked with a large number of Russians and expatriates: Canadian, American, British, Irish, etc.

One day, during banya (Russian steam room event) one of the guys I was working with asked if I was the geologist who flew helicopters. I replied in the affirmative (I had assisted my brother-in-law in building his home-brew chopper, helped get it certified, and decided that I would like to learn to fly the things myself). He informs me that there’s an old military warehouse just off the field limits chock-full of old Soviet helicopters, all in various stages of disrepair; and he’s interested in flying as well.

“Want to go take a look?”

“Hell, yeah”.

So we commandeered a company UAZ and trundled over hill and dale (frozen swamp and more swamp) to a rather disreputable neglected warehouse surrounded by even more neglected perimeter visitor-deterrents (rusty razor wire, falling down chain link fence and rusty cameras). I immediately got a bit apprehensive as things were in such a state of flux in the RSFSR at the time, and not wanting to get inadvertently ventilated, asked if we had permission to go on in.

“Sure, the caretaker is over there (points to a tumbledown shack with smoke pouring out of the chimney) and Yuri here knows him.”

“OK, let’s go have a look.”

We were greeted by the caretaker who was absolutely thrilled to have company (we presented him a couple bottles of Russkaya to grease the wheels, so to speak) and he invited us in to have a look around.

It was chopper nirvana. It was a fucking genuine museum of Soviet rotary-wing aerodynamics from the last 3 decades.

Gad. Mil MI-24s (HIND-20As), Kamovs of every vintage and description, MIL-whatever’s, evidently some experimental models that never made it to production…

Helo-geekgasm.

The caretaker was very forthcoming with stats, production information and was just a walking encyclopedia of Soviet helicopter lore.

“You like these…?” he asked in a sort of offhand way.

“These are incredible. I’d sure’d like to have flown any of these when they were in their prime…”

“You pilot?”

“Yep. Got my private license (PPL-H) and over 380 hours stick and rudder time.”

“You have helicopter at home?”

Considering their price and upkeep, I sadly shake my head ‘no’.

“Oh, very bad. Maybe you like buying one of mine?”

“What?”

“Look around. So much good machines going to waste. Most will be scrap someday.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am caretaker. I say what happens in my house. I can help with permits; since you work for [Oil Company], they ship large crates all the time. Yes, am serious.”

“Excuse me…quick conference…”

“Look, guys; if this is for real, we have the deal of the century right here. We can split all costs 4 ways and I even have a place (I hoped…) in Texas where we can hangar the thing and do the restoration work…”

At the time, I was the only licensed pilot, but the other 3 in the crowd swore they were going to get theirs ASAP.

“So, we agreed? Split all costs from here on to restoration and certifying 4 ways?”

“Yep.”

“Sure.”

“Damn Skippy.”

So, in the spirit of long-story-short, we dither around the warehouse for a few hours, find an acceptable ‘70s vintage MIL MI-17 (and a huge assortment of spare parts…enough for damn near another chopper) and dicker over the price.

Finally settling on a price (which includes permits for export, crating and transport to export locale), we write up a hand-drawn sales contract (stamped in quadruplicate so everyone can lose their own copy) and pledge to be back in 28 days (our rotation scheme was 28/28) with the Benjamins.

Back at the basecamp, we somehow wheedle and tease out a method to get our prize sent to Texas via the oil company’s shippers. Cost me a box of Havana cigars, but, damn, I was getting a fucking helicopter…

Back in Houston, I tell my wife (who was way less enthusiastic than I about our plans; her response: “Yay.”) and contact a pilot/mechanic I knew from my ‘exploration’ days back in Central Asia (ahem) who had ‘retired’ and had this huge aircraft warehouse/workshop on an adjacent island where he whiled away his time, restoring old aircraft.

I told him of my good fortune and asked if I could ship the chopper chunks to his warehouse so I could have a place to store the critter. Since it was only 75km from my abode in Houston, I’d be able to travel out on my downtime to work on the thing.

“Sure, I’ve a few open bays now and it’ll just be your fair portion of rent…

…but only if I can work on it as well.”

“Hell, yeah! It’ll be shipped out in a month or so and should be here by spring (takes about 3 months to ship via boat and get it through customs).”

“Perfect. Talk to you then.”

Done deal, right? 30 days later, I’m back in-country and talking with my co-conspirators.

“Ready to go buy our bird?”

“Yep.”

“Sure.”

“Well, I need to talk to you about that…”

Snag #1.

“I can’t come up with the money right now, but I still want in on the project. Spot me a couple of months and I promise to keep up my end…”

It wasn’t a terribly huge sum of money (split 3 ways), but there was much debate over what to do. In the end, we made him sign another hand-written contract reflecting the new situation and his responsibilities.

So, after a lot of bilingual frittering, we ponied up the cash and supervised the crating of one beleaguered Soviet helicopter and a huge amount of spare parts (including TWO spare engines), called for a couple of lowboys to transport the mess back to base. In less than 8 hours, we were back, toasting our success as our crates sat in the company’s export Quonset hut.

I’ll spare you the turmoil of shipping, customs and all that mess; but about 5 months later, our chopper and parts arrived at my buddy’s warehouse/workshop.

Uncrating and inventorying all the materials took about 4 weeks (there were a LOT of spare parts) and my buddy informs me he’d like monthly rent before the end of the month.

“Sure, no problem. What’s this going to run me?”

“Well, there’s four of you idiots in on this plan so how about $400 a month?”

“That’s easy enough.” I pay him, and invoice my partners with the costs and the good news.

Snag #2.

“Umm, yeah. I can’t do that right now (Hell, he’s pulling down US$850/day as a driller), can you spot me for a month or two?”

I sigh and concede.

Snag #3.

“Ummm, my wife doesn’t want me to spend the money on the helicopter right now, and I can’t do rent…”

“OK, you’re out. You still owe for customs, shipping and the like as we agreed back in Russia.”

“Ummm…no, can’t do that.”

“OK, you’re totally out. Done. Finished. Finito.”

He hung up on me.

So, now I have to break it to the other remaining partners that the price of poker’s just gone up. Again.

“<Exasperatedly> “Yeah, OK.”

“<Heavy sigh> I suppose.”

So, now we’re down to three partners, and all paying more for some frivolous contraption that is going to sit and hemorrhage cash even while we sleep. However, I’m more or less undaunted and determined to make this thing work.

Time, as its wont, progresses, and costs start to mount. I’m doing all the bookwork, spending way too much time wrenching on a sick bird that might die at any moment, and getting flak every time I send out a monthly invoice.

“It’s that time: here‘s your monthly invoice.”

“<sputter> I never agreed to that!”

<gasp> Holy shit, that’s too damn much. I can’t pay that every month.”

Having had enough of all of this horseshit, I get my buddy Bruno the Legalist (specialist in widows and orphans forcible relocation) to draw up a legally binding document for my ‘partners’ to sign. Bruno works cheap (beer, Russian vodka, Cuban cigars, and promises of free helicopter rides) and whips up one fine piece of legalese.

Basically, you sign this document where you approve to what we had agreed upon previously (but this time it was a real legal contract, not something hand-drawn), and if you do not sign, or sign and default, you relinquish all claims and your percentage of the project permanently.

Put up or shut up time.

I sent the contract to all 3 previous co-conspirators.

Snag the last (or so I thought).

No one responded and as per the document, they all opted out. In perpetuity.

That leaves me as the 100% owner and responsible party for this project.

Yikes.

With a heavy heart and near death-dealing hangover, I show up at my pilot buddy’s workshop and tell him the bad news.

He broke out in the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve ever seen not on a Cheshire feline.

“Well, I wondered how long your ‘partners’ would last…Good.”

“How the fuck is this good? “

“Well, now I can tell you that I’ll forgo the rent and help put in the work you planned on the bird through certification. And I get right of first refusal on any spare parts.”

“Holy shit? Really?”

“Ah-yup. For a 50% cut on the deal.” <channeling Karen Allen> “I’m your God-damned partner!”

Talk about being seized at the base of your snarglies…

“Like I have a choice?”

“No, you don’t.”

“Sneaky bastard”, I thought. Little did I realize…

Well, time kept on slippin, slippin’, slippin’ into the future (♫ I want to fly like an eagle to the sea, fly like an eagle, let my spirit carry me…♫) against all odds, travails, snapped bolts, and bloodied knuckles, our little project is reaching a stage where it actually looks like something airworthy rather than a pile out of a swamp-bound Soviet scrapyard.

Although I still see my erstwhile partners every 28 days when back in-country, none of them ever utters a word about the chopper or even how the project is going. Their receptions are cooler than a jug of Moscovskaya in the Yenisei River and I figure: “’Eh, sour grapes” and just get on with the jobs at hand.

Several sets of rotations later, I’m back in the states, I go out to the island and sitting there on the tarmac, is a beautifully painted (chrome-blue and yellow) Russian MI-17. Complete and ready for certification.

It was so fucking beautiful.

“How?”

“Oh, I got tired of listening to you kvetch about the damn thing, so I decided to call in some favors, got a couple of my mechanic buddies down here from Opelousas and finished the thing in time for your birthday. It was about fucking time…”

I was overwhelmed. Both by gratitude and the desire to take a ride or go out and buy him his own tavern.

“Throttle before bottle, Chuckles. <S.R. Hadden mode> Want to take a ride?”

“It’s already certified?”

“Almost…but we’ve got to do a shakedown first, right?”

It fired volcanically on the first flick of the ignition, spooled up without as much as a cough, sputter or vibration. Hell, he even went out and had the seats reupholstered down in Peidras Negras, Mexico. But black denim…really?

“Me or thee?” I asked, hoping to get the virgin flight.

“Best let me. I’ve got more hours flying than you… …have in a bar…”

Power up, radio check, checklist, wash, rinse, spin…everything’s bucking along like young colt on its first furlough.

Going all Captain Picard: “Engage.”

A quick 25 minute recon over the island (and annoying the local Black Wing Gull population) we head SSW offshore a bit to see how she really handled and he relinquished the stick to me.

Got to hand it to Russian aeronautical technology; she flew like a dream: responsive, quick and loads of balls.

Back at base, we flare in, hover and land softer than a summer blizzard on the tarmac.

“Like that? Good. She’s a worthy but thirsty bird. That little run cost about $350 in fuel.”

“Holy shit.”

“So, now we have a fully restored Soviet helicopter. What are you going to do with her?”

“Y’know, I never really gave it that much thought as everything was just geared to making it happen. Now…”

“And you need to get her certified, find her a home…”

“You mean ‘we’, don’t you?”

“Oh, yeah. But I’m getting busy out here and bivouacking her here inside is going to run about $750/month.”

“Damn, I can do that for a month or two, but she’s going to have to work to pay her own way.”

“Yah, well, hey. I know a few oil people that need local hot-shot service, and she’d be prime for that. Tell you what, I’ll arrange it and we can split the costs/profits. Can you fly when you’re in-country?”

“Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, but the projects in Siberia are really ramping up so my 28 & 28s are going to be more like 45 & 14s.”

“Make it so.”

Well, time kept doing what it’s used to, and Lo! And Behold, once word got out that we’re doing an ad-hoc hot-shot service, we are getting more jobs than one person can handle.

Since I’m gone most of the time now, we hire 2 additional (ghastly expensive) on-call pilots and suddenly, we’re the Planet Express of the Gulf Coast.

And I’m Zoidberg,

After 8-10 months of this, we’re actually getting more business than fuel/maintenance/ salary costs, and we’re actually eking out a small profit. An infinitesimally small profit, but more in-come than out-go for once.

Meanwhile, back in Mother Russia, the gang of three whom I was working with when this all began snickeringly asked how the ‘junk-pile project’ was going. They loved it when I was wrenching and bleeding cash. Their demeanor suddenly changed when I mentioned that we finished her, got her certified and are now running a little side business ferrying stuff hither and yon around the Gulf Coast.

They really got cheesed when I mentioned that we were actually making a profit and were thinking about branching out, and that I might be in the market for another ex-junk pile Soviet chopper.

Cue the begging and kvetching..

“Good. I’m getting my license in about…I don’t know, 6 months or so, so I can be another pilot, right? “

“Ummm…no. Need I remind you that you opted out of this deal?”

“Oh, come the fuck on. You can get rid of one of your on-calls and I’ll fly when I’m back on rotation. That’ll save money and we’ll all make more. “

“Are you not listening? You, you and you <pointing to the other 2 dimwits I had stupidly thought to be reasonable> all bailed when things got real. Remember those funny little legal documents I had drafted up?”

“Well, I never signed nothin’, I just threw it away. “

“Never read it either, I suppose?”

“No, just the part where it got real expensive and I said…”

“You all said ‘Fuck this’. None of you even read the damned thing to the part where it stated you sign and agree to the contract or you are out. Permanently.”

“Well, I never signed, so…”

“You all had three options: (A.) sign and agree, (2.) sign and opt out or (iii.) NOT SIGN and lose all claims forever.”

“I never saw that!”

“Not my fault that you’re stupid as well as illiterate.” (Yes, I was getting a bit testy by this time.)

“Well, that may be. But YOU OWE us and have to let us back in.”

“Under what form of illogic does that conclusion stem?

“Well, we helped. Yeah. We helped you find the place and we were there at the beginning…”

“So, I set up you and your current wife up on your first date, what does that entitle me to?”

“Fuck right the fuck off.” (They had been separated for the last 2 months…oops).

“Be that as it may; I have new working partners, official very legal contracts and responsibilities I need to honor.”

“That don’t include us?”

“Now, finally. You are showing the glimmerings of understanding.”

“That’s really shitty, you…”

“Listen up, Scooter. I don’t know why you’re mad at me, you had every opportunity to be in on the ground floor of this enterprise and when the going got choppy, you bailed. Want to be pissed at someone? Go look in a fucking mirror.”

There was much, much more bad noise; but suffice to say I was through with this crowd and if they were pissed off, it was a massive SEP (Someone Else’s Problem).

A week or so later, the company president calls me into his office and I figured it would be the usual congratulations on exceeding project KPIs and the obligatory vodka and cigar festivities, but there was this somber tone and I was sore perplexed as to what was going on.

“Ummm. We’ve got a problem.”

“How so? Production down? More snow forecast? Vodka prices up?”

“No, there’s dissention in the ranks and it seems it’s all because of you.”

“Now what did I do?”

“Something about you spiriting a helicopter out of here and squeezing out your partners?”

“Oh, motherfuck. Let me tell you the real story…”

[One real story later]

“Oh, I see. But still, isn’t there some way you can smooth things over. You guys are all our Western group leaders and we can’t let this disrupt our developments over here. We certainly cannot let the Russians see us wash our dirty linen in public. We’ve spent too long building rapport with this crowd…”

“Look, Chief. This is an entirely non-business, non-project related issue. They’re just being a bunch of turds because I stuck with it until completion and they jumped ship when things got rocky. Kind of says something about relative work ethics, doesn’t it? “

“Still, I can’t order you to settle this; but, as a friend and your boss, and since contract re-negotiations are coming up, can’t you find a way to make nice for all involved…?”

“Subtle, Jerry. Real subtle.”

“I pride myself on my managerial and intimidating skills.”

“OK, let me talk to my real partners and see what I can, maybe, come up with.”

I was disconsolate. Either I let the Gang of 3 back in or I may jeopardize my contracts and main source of familial cash. Or, I tell them to collectively “Get fucked” and brace myself for the ensuing shitstorm. Or, I can seek consul from a good friend and incredible aircraft mechanic.

“So, that’s the way it is. Either tell them to fuck off and jeopardize my career or let them back in, take a financial shot to the shorts, and look like a schmoe. I’m at my wit’s end. Either way, I’m well and truly screwed…”

“Or…”

“Yes?”

“You capitulate, on the condition we reset the clock and go back to the original contract.”

“The one they refused to sign? “

“Yep. Along with all the receipts and costs you and I’ve kept scrupulously since that day, including a back-in clause and restatement of current responsibilities. I also have this possibility of…[redacted].”

“God damn. You are one devious bastard. Never let me get in on your bad side.”

“Wise move, grasshopper. A tot, shall we?”

Several (many several, actually) tots later and a call in to Bruno the Legalist, we are ready for the final act.

It took some planning, but timing as it were, we all were off rotation and I called for a general meeting at the island warehouse. One bright, sunny spring day, all co-conspirators were in attendance and literally goggled when US-1A, a chrome-blue and yellow MI-17 was wheeled out onto the tarmac.

“Holy fuck…you did it.”

“Well, we did it.”

“She’s a stunner. How does she fly?”

“Like a pterosaur on steroids. Thirsty but sound. With more balls than you three combined.”

“Damn. I never thought I’d fly…”

[Muttering] “That’s right…”

“Hmm?”

“Oh, nothing. I’d like you to meet our not-so-silent partner…”

Enter Bruno the Legalist.

“Hi, guys. I’m Bruno the Legalist and before we can continue this little soiree, I need you to read some documents, purely legal bullshit, and sign before we get this party into high gear.”

[Cue distribution of legal documents, including costs of storage, refurbishment, certification, fuel, black denim seats…]

“Holy fuck!”

“Faith and begorrah!”

“Gasp.”

“So, gentlemen, are we all prepared to sign on to our wonderful venture?”

“I never expected…”

“There’s no way…”

“Fuck me.”

“So, I take it, by all your reactions that you don’t want to opt in?”

Opting in, at that point, would have cost (based on a sliding scale based on number of partners) somewhere in the six digits.

“Fuck. No way. I can’t afford that…”

“Sorry. No can do.”

“Not only no, but hell no…”

“Please sign the documents, and we’ll be off to the open bar to celebrate…”

“Celebrate what?”

“Signatures first…”

All acquiesced and with everything done and dusted, my mechanic/pilot pal announces that we’re negotiated the sale of our little project to a not-so-local helicopter manufacturer that’s been lusting after our giblets ever since were legally able to get a Russian helicopter into the US without protracted (i.e., years long) deliberations. Seems with our contacts, we were able to do surreptitiously (though 100% legally) what they were unable to accomplish in 5 years.

Bruno the Legalist speak up: “However, before this is all signed and sealed, there is the little issue of my promised chopper ride, remember?”

I’m not a total savage, so I ‘let’ my mechanic buddy take Bruno on his flight.

Afterwards, I flew solo to our buyer’s offices in Houston.