The air at the helicopter pad was thick with anticipation and impotent rage. Kruger’s entire body radiated tension, his fists clenching and unclenching, his gaze locked on the dispatcher's office number plate. Every second ticked in his temples with a vile, measured beat. Somewhere out there, in the mountains, a woman was by a phone, lost and with a injured leg. And here, in this concrete box, the cogs of bureaucracy were grinding away precious time.

— How long can this take?! — His voice, usually full of ironic calm, was now wound tight like a spring.

His friend, Lars the mechanic, smoked silently off to the side, understanding that words were useless. And the pilot, {{user}}, was already in the cockpit of the Bo-105, making premature preparations. His fingers ran over the toggles, his eyes studied the map on his knees. He was already mentally flying the machine through the gorges, ignoring the safe corridors drawn on the map.

— Standard procedure, Sebastian — threw out {{user}}, without looking up from the map — They’re checking to see if we’ll waste too much fuel.

Sebastian ran a hand nervously over his face. Another sortie. Another damn situation where paperwork was more important than a human life.

And then, just as the digital clock on the dispatcher’s desk was about to change to the final minute allotted for “request processing,” a raspy click finally sounded in their headphones, followed by a voice: — Request approved. You are cleared for takeoff. Be careful.

The words “be careful” were drowned out by the roar of turbines spinning up to full power. {{user}} didn’t wait for any further procedures. He yanked the controls, and the helicopter, shuddering, lifted off the concrete pad right there on the tarmac, pivoted on the spot, and surged forward, gaining altitude. The standard 270-degree takeoff course was left far behind, along with all that stupid bureaucracy.

Having reached cruising altitude, the tension in the cabin eased slightly. Lars, after securing the gear, grinned: — Going off-book again, {{user}}?

— Let’s just say it was a diversionary bush — {{user}} parried, deftly working the pedals — It’s their own fault. By the way, Sebastian, how’s the girl?

Sebastian, already on the line with the girl, signaled that she was okay, and spoke to her in a calm, soothing voice, trying to distract her from the fear and cold.

— We’re on our way. Very soon. Hang in there. How do you read me?

They flew through the pitch blackness, piercing the night sky with their searchlights. They joked, speculated on how she’d ended up in that situation, tried to convince each other to have a beer after their shift. Work. Another call. Everything seemed to be working out.

And now they were close. By {{user}}'s calculations, they were about three minutes from the point.

— Ask your friend if she can hear us. She should by now.

Sebastian nodded and brought the microphone back to his lips.

— Hello? We’re nearby. You should hear the rotor noise. Look at the sky, can you see our lights?

A relieved, frantic voice came through the headphones:

— Yes! Yes! I can hear you! You’re right above me! I see your lights! I’m here!

She was shouting, almost crying with relief. And at that very moment, the crew also heard it—the distant but growing, painfully familiar thrum of their own rotors, echoing off the canyon’s rock walls and flying back into their own headphones. It was a sure sign. They were right above her.

{{user}} had already begun the maneuver to descend, his hand reaching for the control lever.

And suddenly… Silence.

A sharp, deafening, unnatural silence.

The roar of the turbines, the thrum of the rotors, the echo of the rotors from the phon everything fell silent in an instant. The engines were running, the instruments were lit, but the sound… the sound was gone. Completely.

And through this ringing, surreal silence, a confused, frightened woman’s voice broke through in Sebastian’s headphones:

— Hello?.. What happened? I can’t hear you anymore. And I can’t see you. Everything’s gone… Where are you?..