The hydra's head

He clenched his fists as the helicopter's rotors whirled the surrounding air. Even with the insulated headphones, he could still hear all the blades cutting through the invisible medium. He wiped his forehead with a tissue, then threw it away. There might be another, then a third. His body was tilting at windmills, and not even a thousand tissues could stop the torrent of sweat pouring down his forehead, not until he got over it. Perhaps things would subsequently worsen.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“Yeah, Carlos, I’m OK.”

“You don’t look OK.” The man sitting in front of him remarked, his black suit almost torn on his shoulder. His holstered Glock rattled on the left side when the plane hit a small air vortex.

“Oh, and even this.”

“I thought you just couldn’t stand airplanes.”

“I hate all forms of flying.”

“I understand, but you know…”

“I know this will be the quickest way. We've gone through this many times.”

“Don't worry, Mr. President, you'll get over the meeting soon.”

“Soon, you say?” The president raised his eyebrows and looked out the helicopter window. Below them was a huge concrete jungle, with its tens of meters of cement trees and people running through them like tiny ants.