The outhouse-sized building is the lone outcropping in the bare, one hundred yard square grass field.
As I crested the roof on the ladder I peered over the top and she wasn't there. She was inside the building with Elvis. I would like to say, "I knew that," but the open-air slot on the flat roof of the fifteen-foot tall concrete telephone junction bunker turned out to be two feet by three feet. I had via radio slipped my ParkZone Micro P-51 with twin Brownings cleanly into this internal concrete "carrier" envelope and stuck a smooth belly landing on the eight foot square concrete subfloor.Not even an abrasion mark on the belly. Li-Po's charging okay right now.
I am one lucky guy. And I must be afflicted with honesty or I would have said, "I meant to do that."
The good Lord knows this first bird is special to me. He is my Shepherd, the Good Shepherd, and I am not taken out of his hand. Nor is my bird.
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