Fix this helicopter. I’ll kiss you right now. The voice cut through the hanger like ice. Jack Hunter looked up from his mop. Still dripping with dirty water. His eyes landed on the Airbus H1 145 sitting under the flood lights, its engine cowling open like a wound. He’d only been looking at it for a few minutes. Out of curiosity, Alexandra Hol stood 20 ft away, arms crossed, surrounded by a cluster of engineers in pressed shirts and lanyards. Her gaze dropped to his oil stained janitor uniform.
“You like staring at helicopters, or are you dreaming of being a pilot?” Laughter rippled through the group. Jack said nothing, but the next time he looked up, it wasn’t to stare. It was to open the engine. Alexandra Holt was born into aviation royalty. Her father built Holt Aerotch from a two-hangar operation into a powerhouse of civilian roercraft manufacturing. Her mother, a former flight instructor, left when Alexandra was nine. She died 3 years later in a small plane crash off the coast of Maine.
