'No, but I want to open it again and check one of the inverters for sparking when I've got main circuits on.' I hoped he hadn't studied electronics in night school.
But he bought it. 'That is all for your radio and radars and things?'
'Two comm sets, two ADF's, VOR/ILS, radar, marker -this aeroplane's under-equipped. When I first flew jet fighters, at night, we had just one ten-channel comm set and a transponder thing that never worked. The big changes in aviation haven't been jumbos and supersonics.'
He nodded. 'So – what do you do now?'
'Pre-flight check.'
'Please…' So I went back to the door and started again. Normally, a pre-flight isn't something you have to be too sincere about, particularly if you're the one who last flew the aeroplane. Just check the wheels for punctures or cuts, the wingtips and tail in case some hit-and-run pilot taxied into them, take off the pitot head cover and waggle the controls. But you can also do it by the book, and this time I did.
I was conscientiously poking a pipe-cleaner into the static air entry holes by the tail when it began to drizzle again. Tamir hunched his shoulders. 'I think we leave you now. Happy landings.'
'You've been watching too much TV.'
'Where else can one learn how to be a detective?' He shook my hand, Sergeant Sharon didn't, and they hustled away towards the terminal. Now I had to work.
I whipped off the electronics panel again. Up on the bulkhead that separates the compartment from the cockpit is one nonelectronic thing: the brake fluid reservoir. Why Beech put it there I don't know, but today I was glad they had. It doesn't look much: just a fat metal-polish can with a screw top and a plastic tube leading into the bottom.
I unclipped the can from the bulkhead, took off the top, and poured out the equivalent of two ounces of tobacco into an empty tin. The human race must have invented nastier liquids than hydraulic fluid, though Greek wine is the only one that springs to mind, and even that doesn't smother your hands in sticky rose-coloured muck that smells like a robot's brothel. But I don't suppose it does as much harm toa VOR/ILS box when you pour it carefully into the joints, either.
That would look too selective, so I sprinkled the last drops around obvious but non-dangerous places where it would show if anybody came looking.
Then I jammed the cap back on against the screw thread, to show how it had slopped out, and clipped the can back in place. Panel back on andall screws twisted home. Then wash my hands in petrol from the fuel tank drain and I was on board only a minute behind my schedule.
27
'Ben Gurion groundcontrol, Queen Air Whiskey Zulu. Request start-up, please.'
'Whiskey Zulu, stand by." They always say that while they sort through the bits of paper to find if they've got one about you. But I'd started up already anyhow; I don't like working the radio off the batteries.
'Whiskey Zulu, clear to start up. Set QNH 981 millibars.'
That put the pressure as far down as I'd seen it in the Mediterranean. The low had tracked closer than predicted. I ran through the rest of the cockpit check, including radar, marker receiver, ADF's and VOR/ILS on. The ILS needles shivered and swung to one side, but the 'off' flags went out; it was still in business. I set the ADF's on the local beacon and Tel Aviv, but without much faith.
'Whiskey Zulu, taxi clearance.'
'Whiskey Zulu, clear to taxi to holding point runway 30.'
'Whiskey Zulu.' I started moving, checked the brakes, rolled on. Nothing else on the field seemed to be moving. The armed guards sheltered, shaking wet feet, under Boeing wings and watched me pass with expressionless eyes.
'Whiskey Zulu, are you ready to copy your clearance?'
'Go ahead.'
"Whiskey Zulu cleared to Nicosia on Blue 17 Bravo flight level 80.'
That didn't need copying. 'Blue 17 flight level 80. Whiskey Zulu, thank you.'
'Change to Ben Gurion Tower, frequency 118.3.'
'Whiskey Zulu, 118.3.'
I switched both sets over. 'Queen Ak Whiskey Zulu listening out.'
I stopped at the holding point and did a careful run-up on both engines, checking for mag drops. Nothing much.
'Whiskey Zulu, ready for takeoff.'
'Whiskey Zulu, Met advises line of electrical storms approximately fifteen kilometres west, inbound flights report severe turbulence.' The clipped voice was as carefully unemotional as a laundry list.
With the midday temperatures and coastal effect, the front was winding up tight. Well, if it was rough upstairs it would be bad below stairs; that's what I'd wanted, wasn't it?
'Thank you, Tower. But haven't you heard of heroes?'
'Whiskey Zulu cleared for takeoff on runway 30, wind now reported 270, 25 knots gusting to 40. Climb initially to 3,000 feet, maintaining runway heading until outer marker, then resume normal navigation.'
'Whiskey Zulu, rolling.'
But not for long. The airspeed needle flickered almost before I'd got the throttles open. I stayed on the ground well past 90 knots – a sudden drop in the wind could slam me back with a crunched under-carriage – and when I lifted off we went up like a nervous lift. Half the wet-shiny black runway still stretched ahead when I was wheels up and throttled back into the climb.
The Tower came back: 'Whiskey Zulu, airborne at oh-seven. Change to Ben Gurion Approach, 120.5. Shalom."
'120.5. Not up here.'
As I reached to switch channels again, something moved on the main panel. When, I looked back, the ILS dial was dead. With its dying volts, it had managed to put up both OFF flags, and I hope I go as thoughtfully.
The first cloud came at 2,500 feet. Just thin wet stratus without any extra turbulence – in fact things were smoothing out as I got clear of the rippling effect of the ground. After another half minute the grey turned to a gentle golden glow, the rain drained off the windscreen – and I was in a new world.
A hard bright sun blazed over my left shoulder and glared back off the fluffy white cloud below – the top side of that dank stratus I'd just cleared. The total was as bright as a ski-slope; I blinked and squinted before I got my sunglasses on. But ahead…
It reached higher than I could see with the cockpit roof in the way, and far out of sight to either side. A bulging, boiling wall of cloud, blinding white in the sun but so dense it threw black shadows on itself below the bulges. As I watched, one of the black patches flashed green-blue with internal light.
For a pilot, this is the wall ofthe eternal city. Its ramparts higher than Everest and older than Jerusalem, yet so transient that it can build itself and fade inside a day. And you can spend that day in the bar – but there'll come another. A day when there's just you and the wall and a reason to get through.
But not me, not today. All I had to do was get blood on my sword. I'd still have settled for a nice calm sea fog, if Israel went in for that sort of thing.
I had a couple of minutes left; the aeroplane hung steady as a picture on a wall as I switched off the loudspeaker and plugged in the earphones, ready for things to get noisy, and turned up the radar brightness. It was still playing up, not reaching beyond ten miles, but that showed enough: a ragged but solid bar of shimmering light, from about five miles onwards. Rain. Rain thick enough to throw a reflection like a hillside. I turned the contour switch.
The screen blinked and the line hollowed out to an irregular row of dark holes, almost linked. The thunderstorm cells, churning private cauldrons of up-and-down draughts. The strong points of the wall. I weaved the nose to give it a better view south and north, but no obvious weak points.
Did I really want one? Half of me did; even twenty years of built-up flying instinct wanted the safest way. Problem: how to get into trouble safely.
I could try one thing. 'Ben Gurion Approach, Whiskey Zulu. Request clearance to descend on track and try to get below this stuff.'