“590 mph and accelerating.” Kruze was still counting. “Just gone through 600 mph. Slight buffet at 610, but only momentary. 620 now. Smooth ride.”
Marlowe watched in horrified fascination as the 163 carved an inexorable path towards the turgid sea, pursued by its angry, fiery trail. He found himself shouting into his mask for Kruze to ease back as he saw the aircraft head for a gap between the clouds. He knew that the cloud base bottomed out at a few thousand feet. A few seconds later and he broke RT silence to issue the warning.
Kruze heard, but decided to press ahead. Something was driving him on, pushing him harder than he had ever gone before. It was a force deep inside that told him this aircraft had to be taken to the limits, no matter the cost. He looked at his altimeter. Five thousand feet. Just a little bit more. He flicked a glance at the airspeed indicator positioned above his height dial. He read out 640 mph. Then the buffet hit him again. It came so suddenly that it took Kruze by surprise. The tiny aircraft shook like a leaf in a raging tempest. The instruments blurred till he could no longer read them. He tried to call out, but the vibrations were so strong that he couldn’t form any words. He was unable to read off his height but he could see the sea rushing up to meet him. To pull back on the column now would exert enough gravitational forces to rip the wings off. He had to get the speed down first.
He fumbled for the throttle lever, found it and shut the Walters down. He inched back on the control column and felt the 163’s nose rise a fraction before the G-forces compressed his body, forcing the blood into his feet, and building until his head felt heavier than a sack of coal and the sea rushed to meet him.
Marlowe, in pursuit, broke through the clouds expecting the smoke column from the 163 to lead straight into the grey waters below. Instead there was nothing. No trail. No wreckage. No oil. The Komet had disappeared.
His gaze focused on a sea bird far away, skimming the waves, pulling up, hanging there, falling, twisting and turning back towards the water. In that moment of disorientation and anxiety, it was one of the most beautiful things Marlowe had ever seen. Mesmerized, he squinted against the sunlight that streamed through the clouds. Then he laughed till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
It wasn’t a sea bird. It was the 163.
At eight thousand feet Kruze pulled round in a wide turn that would bring him back on a heading for Farnborough’s long runway. Because of the Komet’s high sink rates on the glide path, he knew he would need plenty of height for the approach; the Rostock scientists had warned him it was an unforgiving aircraft to bring in to land. He glanced out over his wing. Marlowe was there, his hand raised in salute.
The test had been a complete success. Not only did the 163C have the considerable range of which Mulvaney and Staverton had spoken, it was also the most manoeuvrable aircraft he had ever flown at high speed — and its speed was awesome.
This was where he really felt alive, where every nerve ending was ready to respond to any situation that could develop within a split second in the cramped confines of a high performance fighter aircraft. The world outside was fickle, ever-changing; but here, he knew where he stood. The elements were unforgiving and a moment’s lapse on his part could spell disaster. It was a constant challenge, but it was the way that he liked it.
Farnborough’s runway grew in his windscreen. It was time to extend the landing skid.
At first he thought he was flying through thin cloud. Then he realized that the smoky wisps were inside the cockpit and seemed to be emanating from the floor. He looked past the cumbersome asbestos suit and felt the hair rise on the back of his neck as he saw the source of the trouble.
He called up the tower.
“Sunflower, I’ve got a big problem. The T-Stoff tank appears to have ruptured inside the cockpit.”
“Say again, Kingfisher.”
Kruze cursed. “I’ve got a split fuel tank dammit, but I’m coming into land. Alert the crash trucks.”
Before the youthful officer in the tower could respond, Marlowe cut in on the RT.
“Kruze, don’t be a bloody fool. You’ve got plenty of height. Bale out now. Forget bringing the 163 in, that fuel will eat through you in a second if you get a serious leak in there.”
Kruze could now see the tiny pinprick hole in the starboard tank where the fuel was spilling onto the floor of the cockpit. He watched, half fascinated, half in horror as the hydrogen peroxide began to eat through the rubber cover at the base of the control column, sending noxious contrails spiralling up against the clear canopy. Even beneath goggles, his eyes began to run as the vapour worked its way through the tiny gaps between the glass and the frame.
He looked around for an extinguisher, but couldn’t see one. It was quite useless anyway. Once the chemicals started to eat their way into the aircraft, nothing could stop them except hundreds of gallons of water.
He estimated that he was about one mile down range of the runway now, at an altitude of a thousand feet.
Fifty feet to his left, Marlowe could scarcely see the hunched figure of Kruze for the swirling fumes inside the cockpit. He yelled another warning.
Kruze heard but ignored the desperate pleas. He disconnected the lead that ran from his headset to the instrument panel. The silence enabled him to concentrate on his dials and his badly obscured view of the runway. He looked down quickly and saw the colourless liquid seeping from the widening hole in the tank in little spurts, like blood pumped from a severed vein. T-Stoff sloshed around the floor of the cockpit. It had completely dissolved the rubber where the joystick met the floor and Kruze imagined it eating through the linkages that ran from the bottom of the control column to the hydraulic lines leading to the control surfaces. Once those were damaged he’d lose all control, the 163 would peel away and hit the ground. If that happens, may it be instantaneous, he thought. Anything but a slow death in the acid bath that surrounded him.
He was down to a few hundred feet. If he had wanted to bale out, now it was too late.
Concentrate. You’re committed now a hundred per cent. There’s no going back.
He looked for the flap selector lever, remembering that it was somewhere near his left leg. The flaps deployed, but the aircraft felt as if it had barely slowed. It was hurtling for the runway at over 200 mph.
It was then that he saw the quick-dump lever for the fuel. How could he have been so bloody stupid? He pulled the handle hard and felt the aircraft buck as the remaining pounds of the lethal T-Stoff fell away harmlessly, evaporating over the Hampshire countryside. He kept his heels at the top of the rudder bars, avoiding the fuel that still glistened on the floor.
He crossed over the airfield perimeter fence at over 170 mph. He couldn’t get the bitch to slow down any more than that.
The Komet banged the runway hard, spraying the hydrogen peroxide all over the cockpit. Horrified, Kruze saw parts of the Perspex canopy begin to dissolve. Vapour hissed from his suit where the acid tried to eat through the asbestos. He prayed that the aircraft would not flip onto its back.
He pulled the emergency canopy release cord while the Komet was still bumping along the runway. The slipstream tore it off the fuselage and it skidded across the concrete, coming to rest on the grass perimeter, where the T-Stoff carried on gnawing great holes in the Perspex.