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     After well over a year’s worth of blood, sweat and tears, my pipe dream came true.  At least that was the general consensus among my helicopter crews and the Santa Monica cops – both groups feeling my concept was lunatic - forcing me to fight through a wall of resistance during development. 

     The only person that believed I was on the right track, dear reader, was my boss, Hugh C. McDonald.  God bless him.

     So here I was on the 29^th of July, 1972, cruising westbound above Montana Avenue at a thousand feet over the City of Santa Monica, maintaining a smooth 60 mph, at 10:AM, on our very first day of patrol with the Sky Sentinel.  The company had picked up a used, 1969, Cessna 172K, and, after Group One performed all of the necessary modifications, the wings were repainted white, while the fuselage and vertical tail were done in a midnight blue, with “POLICE” in white emblazon on the upper portion of the tail, and its registration number, “N100PD,” also done in white on the fuselage. 

     Adding a rudder trim, to its already factory-equipped elevator trim, allowed us “hands-off” cruise flight for the single-engine Cessna.  In other words: it was dead-easy to fly and mostly took care of its self – allowing the pilot to devote most of his attention outside; looking for air traffic and keeping track of police activity on the ground.  Maintaining a listening watch on the Santa Monica Tower frequency, plus an eye peeled for other aircraft, was extremely important as a large portion of our patrol area was conducted in the north side of the airport’s control zone.  However, arriving traffic was required to remain at 1,500 feet, while we patrolled at 1,000 feet, which seemed to give us adequate separation.    

     Even so, despite all the planning and preparation, to be perfectly honest, dear reader, on this first day of patrol I’m worried.  Will my airborne “Frankenstein Monster” perform as advertised: stopping the noise complaints, while still catching the bad guys? 

     I don’t have long to wait for an answer. 

     It was clear along the California coastline that day, with a light breeze off the Pacific Ocean - blowing the smog of summer back into the L.A. basin where it belonged.  After cruising over the city for an hour, it was my turn to crawl in back and “observe.”   I was flying with Dwight “Obie” Obenchain; a tall, thin, blond kid in his late twenties, who was ex-army, a “good stick,” and fresh off the boat from Vietnam.  We were wearing helmets with boom microphones, clothed in comfortable, dark-blue jumpsuits, bearing gold wings and World Associates shoulder patches.  As for side arms, we weren’t required to pack any, since we never made physical contact with the public in our airborne capacity, which allowed our lives to be so much more pleasant and safe.

     I unplugged my helmet, unbuckled my seatbelt, slid off the pilot’s chair and knelt on the floor where the right seat used to be.  I continued flying the Cessna with the dual controls, while Obey slipped past me into the pilot’s chair.  When he was strapped in, plugged in, and had taken control, I moved back onto the observer’s specially-designed swivel chair, which gave me 360° movement on floor tracks.

     I had just fastened my seatbelt, and plugged in my helmet, when I heard the absolute worst of all calls over the police radio.  A lone police officer came on the air all out of breath; obviously he had been in a foot pursuit.  He informed SMPD Dispatch that he had seen a subject with warrants at 17^th and Delaware and needed backup.  The subject was a Black male in his early twenties, wearing a long-sleeved blue shirt and blue jeans and, since the subject could run like a gazelle, he had naturally eluded capture.

     This is why I hate these calls, dear reader: First of all this unimaginative flatfoot should have remembered he had air support – giving us a call when he first spotted the subject. Then he should have waited a couple of minutes, until we arrived, before beginning his grand steeple-chase through backyards.  Because once we arrive, and get eyes on the subject, he’ll never elude us.  Now it’s too fucking late.  In the past, when we used to get one of these calls in the helicopter, we’d drone over the area for a couple of hours attempting to flush the subject out.  But all we’d end up doing was lighting up the switchboard at Police HQ with noise complaints, while the subject remained safe in his rat hole until he heard the helicopter leave the area.  That’s why, after all the work, effort and risk, we’d usually end up with zip on these calls.  Sweet bleedin’ Jesus, how I abhorred them.

     Without me saying a word, Obie pushed the throttle forward to full power, raised the flaps and banked towards the southeast.  Before I could say: “Sonofabitch, how I hate these calls!”  The Cessna had accelerated to 130 mph, because it didn’t have much in the way of drag, since the fixed landing gear had streamlined wheel pants and our searchlight was in the shape of a slippery, fixed bomb.

     The “Ghetto,” our destination.

     SMPD “black & white.”

     We got there in 15 seconds flat and, as Obie and I spotted the police black & white parked on the east side of 17^th - south of Delaware - Obie closed the throttle.  Now we’re basically gliding with the engine at idle, as we bleed off the excess speed, and Obie begins a wide left turn as I scan for our subject with the optics.  In the airplane, having the pilot and observer seated in tandem, gives the pilot the same view of the ground as the observer, allowing him to adjust his turns accordingly around a crime scene without the observer telling him what to do.  Whereas in the helicopter, the pilot and observer are seated side by side, therefore as the helicopter turns, the pilot’s view of the ground is often blocked by the observer’s back.  It’s also uncomfortable as hell for the observer, since he’s always twisted at the waist as he attempts to keep the crime scene in sight out his side door, which increases his fatigue factor.  Whereas in the Sky Sentinel, the observer swivels the chair around, so he can comfortably face the crime scene at all times and easily take in the big picture.      

     So why not “hover” in the helicopter, dear reader?  There are several reasons why this isn’t done: fuel consumption is drastically increased – shortening patrol time - plus you become a sitting target for a high powered rifle, and you don’t have autorotation speed if your engine quits. One of our ex-clients, the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office, found this out the hard way.  On a “shots fired” call, they flew a little too low and slow over a group of kids in a wooded area.  One kid had his daddy’s high powered hunting rifle - snapping off a shot as the helicopter passed directly over him.  The bullet penetrated the helicopter’s metal floor, flattening it out, and then zipped through the deputy observer’s wrist – taking out all the bones.  The deputy almost bled to death before reaching the hospital by air - he was a young kid himself, new on the job, and now faced early retirement. 

     This section of the city we had entered was considered Santa Monica’s “ghetto” - which was politically incorrect to talk or write about.  Its boundaries were 20^th, Pico Boulevard, 14^th, and the freeway - containing inhabitants that were mainly of Black and Hispanic origin.  It was also the location of Woodlawn Cemetery – bounded by 17^th, Delaware, 14^th, and Pico.

     I could see the officer, standing across the street from the cemetery, outside his prowler - leaning against it with the door open – apparently still attempting to catch his breath.  Obie could also see the black & white – using it to gauge the apex of his turn.

     As I began to scan 17^th with the optics, I came to a vacant, grassy lot - barely a half block away from the officer - towards Pico.  Running along the north side of the lot was a low, green hedge and, much to my surprise, I discovered a Black male, with blue shirt and jeans - lying on his belly under that hedge next to the sidewalk – intently watching the winded officer at his car.  Those Bushnell optics brought me so close to this young man - that I could actually see sweat, glistening on his shaved head, in the morning sun. 

     This gentleman had recently been doing a lot of running, dear reader.

     At precisely that same moment, as I was getting over my initial surprise, I felt Obie lower the flaps to 10° and, as we decelerated, I heard and felt Obie throttle-up from idle, to 1900 rpm, in order to maintain 60 mph and our 1,000-foot altitude.  I cringed as I held my breath – fully expecting the Black gentleman to hear us, abruptly rollover onto his back, look skyward, spot us, and start running again.

     But nothing happened, dear reader.  “Our suspect” continued studying the officer catching his breath a half block away.

     The noise suppressor on the exhaust stack was bending the engine noise at a 90° angle, breaking it up into balls that were being caught by the corkscrew prop-wash, taking them under the aircraft’s belly, and slamming them into the left side of the vertical tail – breaking them up even more.  None of the engine noise was being allowed to reach the ground a thousand feet below. 

     And that’s when I fully realized “my theory” had become fact: If a suspect can’t hear you, he’ll never look up and find you - there’s too much danger and activity on the ground demanding his attention.  The Sky Sentinel was akin to something out of Star Trek – it was providing me with a “Klingon Cloaking Device” – I was invisible!

     Without taking my optics off the suspect, I pressed the transmit trigger to the first detent, on the pistol grip mounted to the optics – giving me the interphone.  “Obie...,” I transmitted, “you’re not gonna believe this...but I’ve got the suspect.”

     “No shit!” Obie exclaimed over the interphone.  “Where is he?”

     “Do you see that vacant lot on 17^th with the low hedge on the north side?” I transmitted.

     “Uh...oh, yeah...I’ve got it,” Obie transmitted back.

     “He’s under that hedge at the sidewalk,” I pointed out.

     “I’ll be damned...,” Obie responded. “Hey, Pete, there’s a Code Two black and white coming up to the college...eastbound on Pico.”

     I swung my optics over to Pico Boulevard - immediately locating the black & white moving in a big hurry - going “Code Two.”

     Code Two, dear reader, is traveling rapidly with flashing lights from its roof-mounted light bar, while obeying traffic signals.  Whereas Code Three employs flashing lights and siren, while not obeying traffic signals.

     Obviously this squad car was responding to the out of breath officer’s call.  I got the black & white’s unit number painted on the car’s roof – depressed my transmit switch on the pistol grip all the way, which activated our police radio – and instructed the police unit to cross 17^th and turn down the first alley to his left.  He did just that - then I told him to slow down and park next to a white garage at mid-block - which would conceal his squad car from the vacant lot and hedge where “our suspect” was hiding.  Obediently the black & white complied - two officers exited the car – and peered around the corner of the garage.  Instantly spotting the suspect, still on his belly under the hedge at the sidewalk, they quietly moved across the vacant lot with their guns drawn.  While gradually moving apart at a 90° angle - so if they got into a gunfight they wouldn’t be shooting at each other. 

     Directing both cops to the“"Perp” under the hedge.

      Approaching the prone suspect from behind, one officer eventually held back, and lined up a clear shot at the suspect’s torso.  While the other officer proceeded to advance - until he reached out with the toe of his Corfram shoe, and tapped the suspect on the sole of his sneaker.

     The suspect snapped over onto his back and raised both empty hands – staring down the barrels of both officer’s guns dispelled any thought of running.  Pulling him out from under the hedge, he was cuffed and loaded into the backseat of the prowl car. 

     After an officer notified SMPD Dispatch that the suspect was in custody, Obie broke off contact and headed the Sky Sentinel towards the beach at a leisurely pace to continue our patrol.  I in turn swiveled my chair around and faced aft - then wrote up this call in our patrol log clipped on top of the desk.  Upon completing this chore, I felt like a snack to celebrate our first successful call.  Lifting the desk’s lid, I retrieved a peanut butter and honey sandwich from the storage bin.

     “Hey, Obie...,” I transmitted on the interphone, “ya want some coffee?”

     “Oh, yeah...,” he responded, “I guess it’s about that time.”

     I pulled two paper cups out of the desk’s bin, swiveled in the opposite direction, and filled them with piping-hot coffee, from the stainless steel thermos mounted on the bulkhead next to the water thermos.  I handed Obie his coffee – we both took it black.

     Then I swiveled to my observer’s position, settled back in the chair, peeled the Saran Wrap, took a bite of my sandwich, sipped my coffee and heaved a huge sigh of relief, as the city crawled slowly past the extra observer’s windows cut in the fuselage.  The Sky Sentinel was no longer an untried pipe dream – this little flying-bastard was actually going to work!

     The city provided us with a hangar, mechanic and shop at the Santa Monica Airport.

          It was summer and the beach was already filling up with bathers.

    

     From that day forward, dear reader, we never lit up the switchboard at Police HQ again.  All noise complaints ceased.  Our enemies on the city council got their political legs chopped off.  In time the city would end up selling both Hughes helicopters, and purchase a single Sky Sentinel from World Associates.  Boy...was the Hughes Aircraft Division ever pissed off - my name got blacklisted with them.  Well, rat shit.  Get in line and join the club.

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