The adventures of James ‘Cookie’ Cook

Chapter 1 The Last Flight.

“I’ve never had a bad Biryani from that place” Rob, the First Officer of Golf Whiskey Foxtrot 29 Yankee commented. This was a Sikorsky S92 helicopter. The three-man crew from this CMED (Covid Medical Retrieval Air Service, a commercial response from the Oil and Gas industry to the global pandemic) were heading back to the heliport at Aberdeen. The service had run its course and now crew were jumping ship, knowing that the honeypot was drying up as the service was being gradually mothballed. Rob (First Officer), Mac (Captain) and Flight Medic Cookie were enroute from Shetland, flying south at 8,000ft.

They had been on a mission to retrieve a patient from Capstan Delta, a small rig south of the island. The job had been cancelled due to trig lightning overhead, not an uncommon occurrence at this time of year. The weather had been “challenging” all week and a number of flights had already been cancelled. Oil companies were the most risk averse people Cookie had ever met, although the decision to not allow hot food or drinks to aircrew, clad in an immersion suit and three layers onboard rigs was a step too far, in his mind at least.

The hum of the S92 always brought back echoes of other rotorcraft, other nights, different places, similar taskings. Cookie wasn’t sentimental, not by any stretch, but even he couldn’t avoid the flashes of memory that surfaced when the cabin lights dimmed and the sky outside turned to black glass. A Paramedic’s mind never completely let go of the people he’d treated; successful saves, near misses, and the ones who slipped through anyway. He breathed slowly, grounding himself in the here and now.

So, the three were busy planning a curry night, a common and actively encouraged event in the work hard/ play hard team approach to Human Factors prevalent in the aviation, military and emergency service sectors.

This really encompassed the three of them, all veterans. Mac had been flying for the MCA (Maritime Coastguard Agency) since it had been privatised fifteen years prior; Rob was an ex-Navy SAR pilot; and Cookie had been a MERT (Medical Emergency Response Team) Paramedic. This wasn’t an uncommon route as many aircrew jumped from 22 Squadron with the allure of a private sector pay-cheque and a Military pension. Cookie considered his favourite menu choice, “what about a chindian? You can’t beat a Chinese starter, Indian mains?” he commented.

“You’re not wrong” chortled Rob, who was currently in command and piloting this flight.

The cockpit was lit in that soft, functional glow that only aircraft designers and insomniacs truly appreciated. Rob leaned back in his seat, tapping the edge of a laminated checklist against his thigh while Mac adjusted a dial with all the reverence of a man tuning a Stradivarius.

“Right,” Rob muttered, “I’m telling you now, Mac if that curry house shuts mid-week, I’m blaming you personally.”

Mac snorted, eyes still on the gauges. “Rob, the day I rely on you for a dinner reservation is the day I hang up my wings. You’re about as organised as a student on a observation shift.”

“Harsh. Accurate, but harsh.”

Cookie smirked behind them, hidden in the dim rear cabin. This was their rhythm; Mac the straight‑laced Scot who could fly a brick if someone strapped a rotor to it, and Rob the ex‑Navy pilot who treated every shift like a half‑remembered pub quiz.

Mac flicked an overhead switch and checked the crossfeed. ‘Fuel balance nominal,’ he said, watching the split drop back within limits

“Aye,” Rob said—and immediately winced. “Check. Bloody hell, you’ve got me talking like you now. Next thing I know I’ll be craving Irn‑Bru and arguing about the correct pronunciation of ‘loch’.”

“No chance,” Mac replied. “You left the Navy because you couldn’t handle wind speeds above a light breeze.”

Rob raised an eyebrow. “Mate, I flew off a carrier deck in a North Atlantic winter. Wind speed was whatever God rolled out of bed with.”

“God was clearly in a bad mood if he made you a pilot.”

Cookie could almost hear Mac’s smirk.

Rob threw his checklist onto the console in mock despair. “And to think I nearly asked to be paired with you permanently.”

“And I nearly said yes,” Mac replied dryly, “but then I remembered I enjoy peace and quiet.”

They sat in a brief comfortable silence, the soft drone of the S92 filling the gaps between them. Rob broke it first.

“You ever think about doing something else, Mac?” he asked lightly. “I dunno, teaching, maybe. Doing those air‑safety seminars. You’d terrify people into compliance.”

Mac shook his head. “Nah. This is it for me. In the air… everything makes sense. People on the ground complicate things. Up here, you do your job right or you don’t come home. Simple.”

Rob nodded, absorbing the truth of it. “Aye. Fair enough.”

Cookie listened to them both; two men who’d lived more lives than they let on, held together by habits forged in places most people only saw on news bulletins. There was friendship here, a quiet one, born in cramped cockpits and dark humour and the unspoken understanding that trust wasn’t a word, but a behaviour.

Mac reached for another dial.

“Anyway,” he said, “if we make it back on time, the first round’s mine.”

Rob straightened in mock horror. “Mac buying drinks? The world truly is ending. Better radio Aberdeen, tell them to brace for impact.”

Mac rolled his eyes. “Just fly the aircraft, Rob.”

It was a small moment; ordinary, unremarkable, and exactly why Cookie liked flying with these two. Before alarms, before storms, before the job demanded something of them… it was just three veterans keeping each other upright in a world that had stopped making sense long ago.

Minutes later, the alarm would shatter that calm.

But for now, the S92 hummed steadily through the night, and all three men rode the quiet

Beep Beep Beep Beep. The Alarm sounded.

“Standby, standby Immediate Action Indicator, we have a Door Open Indicator on the Starboard door!” Rob said this in a calm but elevated voice. Cookie stayed quiet; he knew well enough when to be quiet and this sounded like a flight crew issue, although it did occur to him that all the doors were in the rear compartment where he sat.

“I have control” commanded Mac.

“Affirm, you have control,” Rob confirmed. He had given flight controls back to the captain.

​“Immediate Action Card six please,” Mac commanded in his broad Scottish tone.

“One: land if possible” was the first, Rob read. Not likely 30 nm (nautical miles) out thought Cookie.

“Two: reset panel Charlie,” and so Rob worked his way down the list.

“Ten: visualise and prove hatch, rear crew, do you have visual?”

“Affirm, appears secure,” Cookie replied.

“Rear crew, can you prove the hatch?”

“Urm you want me to unclip and try the door that may or may not be ajar at 8,000ft? No worries!” Cookie thought to himself how often this 20-year-old aircraft went tech and how it was held together with tape and cable ties like an old transit. The S92 was the stalwart of the Oil and Gas industry and could be configured to SAR or used as a shuttle for offshore workers, seating 42. Either way it was an old bus. Cookie unclipped from his harness but kept his arm looped through the shoulder strap. There was no long line as this service wasn’t required to winch. He sat on the floor and shimmied toward the door, noticing the daylight through the paper-thin gap. Was the airframe rattling more than normal, he considered? Reaching the hatch with his toe, he gave it a firm tap. No, it was unresolved.

“Oh well, bad decisions make great stories!” Cookie slipped out of the harness, stood up, and stepped over next to the door. He gave it a firm shove, at the same time feeling the rush of adrenaline that he relished. Literally there can’t be that many people that die falling out of helicopters, unless you included Hollywood actors, he thought.

Clunk

“Flight that’s clear” Rob announced. The conversation immediately reverted to the curry night.

But for Cookie, it reminded him of his last flight in Afghan, enroute to the BMH Bastion, when the Chinook had taken fire from an Ak47 wielding shepherd. That was fine, it happens. But Cookie had literally dodged a bullet one to many times. Time to move on, he’d thought. He’d done seven years, and he knew it was time. What’s next?

He had dabbled with a career in the NHS and worked on a big yellow Air Ambulance, but he enjoyed the retrieval work: a mix of fixed wing and rotor aircraft found him working in all sorts of random places and with all sorts of random people. The Army had put him through his Close Protection training as a team medic. It suited him, and he knew when to mind his Ps and Qs, and when his opinion mattered. He’d had a checkered career, leaving Sandhurst before he was asked, despite being excellent at Polo and being the first in his family not to serve the Colours as an Officer. A forces brat, and a survivor of boarding schools of a bygone age, where character was built.

Back in his seat, Cookie exhaled long and slow. The others had already pivoted straight back to menu planning, as if dangling beside a loose hatch at 8,000 feet happened every Thursday which, in fairness, it didn't. The adrenaline ebbed gradually, leaving a familiar hum under his skin. He didn’t chase danger exactly, but he recognised the unavoidable truth: moments like that reminded him he was alive in ways no office job ever could.

So here he was Tuesday evening, heading for base with no flight hours left in the day for another tasking. Tomorrow was his last day on this rotation, so this could easily be his last flight. Over the Pandemic, the service had recovered over two thousand patients, sometimes doing three mission taskings a day: they were seven-day shifts with core operational hours on call. It had been a good gig: well paid, free serviced accommodation, and most importantly, on the doorstep of some world class motorcycling. As soon as he was out of flight hours or stood down, he’d be away on his bike. He was happiest riding something, his passions being horses and motorcycles. Bizarrely, he thought, they have similar traits: they can both be expensive and temperamental, but both gave you a sense of freedom like nothing on earth.

As Aberdeen’s lights broke through the cloud deck, Cookie felt the strange dissonance he always got on final approach. One moment you were airborne, solving problems at eighty knots with two people who’d trust you with their lives; minutes later you were taxiing past chain hotels and rental vans, returning to a world where people argued about parking spaces and latte orders. He lived in both worlds, but only one ever felt simple.

Cookie looked out over the bay at the assembled Rig Support vessels anchored to the entrance to Aberdeen harbour, and considered his next move: road trip in his off-grid camper, or take Lilly?

The S92 banked right and descended into the approach vector over Aberdeen and down to Runway 23.

Rob: “final checks, landing gear?”

“Check,” responded Mac.

“And last but not least, rear crew?”

“All secure,” Cookie responded.

The S92 made its last minute of flight along runway 23Right.

“Rotating,” Mac announced as they gently touched down.

“Golf Whiskey Foxtrot 29 Yankee ABZ Ground, good evening, taxi left Delta and proceed Hotspot 4,” a distant, unknown but slightly familiar, voice commanded.

“ABZ Ground 29 Yankee, good evening, Sir, roger taxi left Delta and proceed Hotspot 4.”

They rumbled along the taxiway passing the hotels and along the apron, parking neatly on spot 4. Cookie had always admired the skills of his pilots, but some were artists, symbiotic with their aircraft. He also appreciated the no-nonsense attitude and language of this world, something that he found he struggled with in the mixed messages in civilian life. Here, they all had their skills set, each exceptional at their defined roles, not much room for egos or attitudes.

They sat on the Hotspot for 2 minutes while the crew watched and monitored displays.

“ABZ Ground 29Yankee, request shutdown clearance, over?” Rob requested.

“Golf Whiskey Foxtrot 29 Yankee ABZ Ground, Affirm shutdown Hotspot 4, Goodnight, Sir. Out”.

Rob and Mac went through their shutdown and Cookie started his post-deployment stock and replenishment check. They met back in the crew room for their obligatory debrief, where every decision and action was scrutinised.

Two hours later, Cookie was sat back at his apartment. It was in a serviced block of corporate temporary accommodation, smart and functional. The silence in the apartment was heavy enough to feel physical. Cookie leaned back against the counter, nursing his drink, and looked around at the immaculate but soulless décor. It was comfortable, sure, but it wasn’t living. The itch had been growing for weeks now, the need for motion, for the hum of an engine beneath him and the honesty of the open road. He didn’t know exactly what he was chasing, but he knew he wouldn’t find it within four serviced walls.

He was tired, but he wanted to get a few bits done. He needed to eat. He opened the fridge that he had stocked up at the beginning of the week, but it all needed to be gone when he handed over to his replacement on Thursday morning. There were three in his team: a Team Leader and three Flight Medics, all accommodated in separate twin bedroomed serviced apartments in one of the huge blocks at the airport. Surrounded by many hotels, all to service the transient comings and goings of the offshore workforce. They were up on a seven-day shift span, with Thursday as handover.

He cooked, ate, had another small rum, and considered a cigar.

Chapter 2. The 5 Ps

Cookie woke to the phone ringing and managed to grab it before it stopped.

“TACMAN, Good Morning”,

The Tactical Manger’s phone wasn’t ringing. Bollocks! It wasn’t that phone; he should have noticed the different ring tone. His iPhone rang again. He answered.

“Hi Cookie, its Mic”

Mic who, he thought to himself. Keep talking and it may become clear.

“Mic! How are you doing? Where are you?” Geographical locater always a good start, he thought.

“All good here mate, just arrived a week or two ago”,

Arrived where, you twat? Cookie thought.

“So, you still interested in me teaching you how to ride in the sand?”

Oh, now he knew. Mic is a Paris-Dakar Rally Hall of Famer, a living legend in the adventure motorcycling world. They’d met when Cookie had booked on a two-day off-road course and found a connection with the like-minded adventurer. They’d bonded over some stories and that was that. He wasn’t expecting a call: he thought it was like holiday friends, full of empty promises and classic civvy commitment, although he had hoped for more as this guy had some grit.

“Maybe, probably, no fuck it absolutely, when? I have some time, how do I get there?” Cookie spluttered.

“Ok then, well, head South from Scotland, pop through the tunnel, get to Gib, ferry, Tangiers. Come out of the port, there’s a roundabout, head south about 400miles and you’ll hit Merzouga. There are two hotels, the Imperial and El something. I’ll be in one of the bars. Ok see you in a week or so. Safe travels.” Clunk.

Cookie stared at his phone for a long moment, the silence in the room suddenly feeling louder than the helicopter had. It was ridiculous, he told himself most people needed months to plan a trip of that scale, and here he was committing on a whim because a legend from the Paris‑Dakar felt like teaching him how to ride sand. But beneath the madness was a thrum of excitement he couldn’t ignore.

Urm ok then. Three countries, not even a mention. Shite better write that down. It’s Wednesday today, leave Friday, he thought?

He made a coffee and considered what he had committed to. Write some lists; Bike, kit, admin, and rough route. Don’t really need to firm that bit up until we run out of the UK. We have a loose plan then.

Better call the garage and see if they can service Lilly, stick some new boots on etc.

“Shirlaws, service department, John speaking, how can I help?”

“How do John, it’s Cookie. Any chance you can put Lilly through a service?” he said.

“Sure mate, let’s see,” tap, tap went his keyboard. “How’s a week Thursday?”

“Nope, not so much, leaving Friday, early doors,” Cookie responded.

“Ok mate where you headed?”

“South.”

“Don’t be a nobber, where?” John said.

“Algerian Saharan Desert, thoughts?”

“Yes, you’re a complete twat! You do know it’s November? Bring her down now and we’ll squeeze her in as and when we can. What you hoping for tyres?”

“Anakee wilds would be my preference, but as long as they have teeth, I’ll be happy with what you can get. Preferably a 60/40 if you can”

“Ok get her down asap, and I’ll start moving stuff around. Lucky bastard. Bye!” And with that, John was gone.

The moment he rolled Lilly into the workshop; Cookie felt a shift in the air. Shirlaws was more than a garage; it was a temple to machinery, with the smell of chain lube and hot oil mingling into something that felt like home. Mechanics talked in half sentences, half grunts, the soundtrack of ratchets and compressors filling in the rest. Cookie trusted these people, even more than doctors sometimes. Mechanics didn’t sugarcoat. They told you what was broken and whether you’d live to ride tomorrow.