“Fly This Helicopter and I’ll Marry You,” CEO Mocked — Then the Janitor Single Dad Took Off
“Listen to me, Catherine,” David shouted over the deafening roar of the rotors.
“I am going to pull up directly above and slightly behind the drone. We will be flying at maximum airspeed. When I say ‘take it’, you are going to grab that stick between your legs—the cyclic. Do not jerk it. Do not push it. Just hold it perfectly, dead still. If you flinch, we clip the drone’s tail fin, and we both die. Do you understand?”
“Hold it dead still. I understand,” Catherine said, her voice shaking, but her hands reaching out to hover over the controls.
The black dot of the drone rapidly expanded into a massive, terrifying wall of gray composite metal.
It was screaming toward the bunker facility.
David pushed the cyclic forward, diving the Little Bird to match the drone’s altitude and speed.
The turbulence was catastrophic.
The wake vortex from the drone’s jet engine battered the tiny helicopter, violently tossing it side to side.
Alarms blared in the cockpit.
“Warning! Overspeed!” the automated voice screamed.
David ignored it.
He expertly danced on the anti-torque pedals, stabilizing the shuddering helicopter directly above the speeding drone.
They were flying at one hundred and sixty knots, merely ten feet above the runaway missile.
David unbuckled his four-point harness.
He threw open the right-side door.
The wind tore into the cockpit, a hurricane-force blast that made it impossible to hear anything but the roar of the air.
“Take it!” David roared.
Catherine grabbed the cyclic stick with both hands.
She felt the violent, vibrating life of the machine fighting against her.
She locked her arms, her jaw clenched, staring straight ahead at the horizon, refusing to let the stick drift even a millimeter.
David climbed out of the cockpit, stepping onto the thin metal landing skid.
The wind threatened to rip him off the machine and hurl him into the desert below.
He looked down.
The dorsal spine of the MQ-Next was just five feet below him.
He didn’t hesitate.
Trusting Catherine entirely with his life, David dropped off the skid of the Little Bird.
He slammed onto the smooth, curved top of the drone, his boots skidding across the composite material.
He grabbed the edge of a recessed exhaust vent, his muscles screaming as the wind tried to tear him away.
Above him, Catherine was holding the Little Bird perfectly steady, a guardian angel made of titanium and grit.
“Command! One minute to impact!” the radio screamed in Catherine’s headset.
The bunker compound was rushing toward them at terrifying speed.
David crawled forward, ignoring the searing heat radiating from the drone’s engine.
He found the dorsal service panel.
He smashed his fist into the release latch.
The metal panel flew off, whipping past his face, revealing a complex mess of wiring and the primary avionics breaker box.
He reached in, his fingers wrapping around the thick, red release handle.
He looked up at the observation bunker.
He could see the tiny figures of the generals scrambling outside the compound.
“Die,” David snarled, and he ripped the breaker entirely out of its housing.
Instantly, the deafening roar of the drone’s jet engine died.
The machine went completely dark.
Without propulsion and avionics, the heavy drone immediately lost its aerodynamic lift.
It pitched violently downward.
David pushed off the falling drone with all his strength, reaching upward into the sky.
Above him, Catherine had anticipated the drop.
She pushed the collective lever down, dipping the Little Bird’s skid just enough.
David’s hand caught the metal skid.
His shoulder popped with agonizing force as his entire body weight jerked against his socket, suspended thousands of feet in the air.
Below them, the dead MQ-Next drone slammed into the desert floor half a mile short of the observation bunker.
The impact was catastrophic, sending a massive plume of fire, dirt, and shredded composite material hundreds of feet into the air.
The shockwave rattled the Little Bird, but they were safe.
Catherine engaged the autopilot altitude hold, reached over, and grabbed David by the collar of his shirt, screaming with the effort as she hauled him back into the cockpit.
He collapsed onto the floorboards, gasping for air, his right arm hanging limp.
Catherine threw the helicopter into a sweeping, slow bank away from the crash site.
She looked down at David.
Her face was streaked with sweat, tears, and desert dust.
David dragged himself up, slumping into the right seat.
He looked at her, panting heavily.
“You didn’t flinch.”
Catherine let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob.
She hit the comms button.
“Command, this is CEO Hale. Threat neutralized. Send emergency medical to the tarmac. We are coming home.”
She ripped off her headset, ignoring the frantic cheering erupting from the radio.
She unbuckled her harness, leaned across the center console, grabbed David by the face, and kissed him.
It was a kiss born of pure adrenaline, terror, and an overwhelming, undeniable love.
David kissed her back with equal ferocity, his good arm pulling her tight against him, anchoring her in the chaotic sky.
Three hours later, the dust had settled.
FBI Agent Reed, flanked by military police, dragged Derek Larch out of the command center in handcuffs.
Larch had broken in ten minutes, sobbing and handing over the Cayman Island bank routing numbers that traced directly back to Bradley Stanton’s private accounts.
By nightfall, federal agents were raiding Stanton Capital’s headquarters in Seattle, arresting Bradley on charges of corporate terrorism, attempted murder, and treason.
The MQ-Next contract was signed by General Hackett on the hood of a Humvee before he even left the base.
Later that evening, inside the quiet sanctuary of the penthouse, David stood by the massive floor-to-ceiling window, his arm heavily bandaged and secured in a sling.
He was looking out at the city lights, the same lights he had flown into on that chaotic night months ago.
He heard the soft padding of bare feet.
Catherine wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his good shoulder.
“Chloe is asleep,” Catherine murmured softly.
“She wanted to know if you fought a dragon today. I told her you did. And you won.”
David smiled, turning around to face her.
He looked down at the brilliant, beautiful woman who had gambled her empire on a janitor.
“Catherine,” David said softly, his voice thick with emotion.
“The contract we signed. The eighteen months. I want to breach it.”
Catherine looked up at him, her eyes reflecting the city lights.
“You want out?”
David reached into his pocket with his good hand.
He pulled out a simple, elegant diamond ring—not bought with corporate funds, but with his very first paycheck as her executive consultant.
“No,” David said, dropping to one knee, looking up into the eyes of the Titanium Heiress who had saved his daughter’s life.
“I want to tear it up. And I want to do this for real.”
Catherine’s breath caught.
The tears she had held back all day finally spilled over.
She didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t need to consult a board.
“Yes,” she whispered, pulling him back up into her arms.
“Yes, always.”
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