Helicopters scattered in every direction.
Mickey almost rammed him—would have if Gordon hadn’t somehow felt him coming and yanked up on the collective. Hard to blame Mickey, he’d been hovering directly over the tank.
The tank’s pressure relief valve opened and released a gout of flame a couple hundred feet high right through the airspace Mickey had occupied moments earlier. The fire was superheating the tank, which would eventually rupture. But that process never had a chance to finish.
Mickey’s big Goldwing motorcycle, which everyone always gave him s**t about for being so “old fart” cushy, got caught in the detonation of Vern’s gorgeous Corvette. The shock wave must have caught the motorcycle’s big wind-guard cowling like a sail. The explosion lofted the nine-hundred-pound motorcycle
