Velocity Read Online Free PDF Page B

homely blue heeler named Spike. He’s a large white dog who looks like he’s been splattered with navy-blue paint but never hosed off. He barks.
     
    ‘Okay. Good.’ With a nod, Corey turns to exit the cockpit, then stops. ‘I don’t need to tie you up, do I?’
     
    A bark.
     
    ‘I’m not having this conversation now.’ He points at the animal. ‘ Stay .’
     
    The tall Australian pilot slides out of the day-glo-yellow, teardrop-shaped chopper and turns to a small, decrepit building at the edge of a desert. A single-engined Beechcraft and an old Bell Jet Ranger helicopter are parked in a sandblasted hangar nearby. In the middle distance, two passenger jets, a Boeing 737 and an Airbus A320, are parked beside a runway near a simple terminal building. This dusty little aerodrome is Alice Springs Airport, gateway to Australia’s Northern Territory.
     
    Corey does his best to pat off the fine film of red dust that covers his clothes, which include a faded blue T-shirt, Levi’s 501 and black Justin boots. He pushes his Randolph Engineering sunglasses to the top of his head, revealing blue eyes, then enters the building through a grubby glass door, propped open with a milk crate in the hope of encouraging air circulation in the sweltering heat.
     
    The building doesn’t look any better on the inside. At the rear of the long, basic office three men play poker around a small card table, the ceiling fan above working overtime. Corey forces a grin and approaches the warped and buckled reception desk that cuts the space in two. ‘Fellas.’
     
    The first guy, Harry Kelsy, a tub of lard in his mid-forties, ignores him and keeps his eyes on his cards. The second guy, Roy McGlynn, thin, thinning and thirty, glances at Corey, releases a ‘woof’ under his infamously pungent breath, then looks back at his cards.
     
    Corey ignores them and pushes on. ‘Les, can I have a word?’
     
    The third guy rises from the card table. In his mid-fifties, Les Whittle has a pinched and unhappy expression until he smiles, which he does for Corey. ‘Sure, what’s up?’
     
    ‘Sorry to disturb. Look, I was wondering if - if there was, if you could see your way clear to maybe throw a little work my way? If you have anything spare. Sightseeing, or runs out to the remote communities, whatever’s going.’ Corey tries his hardest not to sound desperate.
     
    Les considers the request. ‘Aren’t you workin’ for Clem Alpine at the moment?’
     
    ‘Been doing some odds and ends for him but it’s —’
     
    ‘Woof.’
     
    Corey ignores Roy. ‘It’s not really making ends meet —’
     
    ‘Woof.’
     
    Les turns and fastens Roy with that pinched and unhappy expression. Roy doesn’t meet his eyes, just studies his cards. Les turns back to Corey. ‘Sorry ‘bout that. Look, this is difficult. You know I’m subcontracted by the operators.’
     
    Corey nods a little too eagerly. ‘Yeah. Sure.’
     
    ‘So the problem is, if I hire pilots they don’t want then they don’t hire me.’
     
    ‘It happened once. Once! Three years ago. Can’t they get past it?’ The desperation finally shows.
     
    ‘Everyone remembers it, mate.’
     
    ‘I know, but jeez. Maybe you could talk to them? I guarantee it won’t happen again.’
     
    Roy pipes up. ‘No one wants the crazy dog guy flying them around. It’s not that difficult to understand.’
     
    Tub-o-lard Harry adds his two cents. ‘Maybe his dog could explain it to him —’
     
    ‘Woof!’ This bark doesn’t come from Roy. They turn.
     
    It’s Spike, standing by the open front door.
     
    Mortified, Corey moves to him, his voice a low, hard whisper. ‘I told you to stay in the chopper. Get out!’
     
    Spike barks.
     
    ‘I don’t need your help.’
     
    ‘I think you need a lot of help.’ Harry twirls his finger beside his head in case anyone didn’t grasp the mental health inference.
     
    Spike leaps over the reception desk in one muscular bound, flies past