He tapped on the glass window in the door.
Jean looked up and beamed, waving him in.
“Well, hello, Lieutenant Brunson.”
“Hi, Jean. I need to check a few items for the funeral. Do you have the contact list, please?”
“Of course,” she said brightly, then delved into a file, handing him a sheet with the names and telephone numbers.
“Thank you. I won’t be long.”
ROB WENT into the Abingdon guardroom at the main gate and filled out a visitor form for Susie, making up a name. One of the smaller illegalities of the day.
At the 47 Squadron operations desk, JR explained they would have a female VIP passenger, and Susie was duly treated like royalty with offers of cups of tea and biscuits.
JR filled out the departure details, and he sat on the sofa next to Rob as they ran through a copy of the Anson pilots’ notes.
They hadn’t been able to contact anyone at Lundy. Apparently, the island wasn’t connected to the mainland by wire. However, JR had found a description of the strip; it was one thousand four hundred feet long, which was tight.
The more they read in the notes, the better they felt their chances were. The handling instructions for take-off at eighty-five knots had a considerable margin of error, as the actual stall speed was closer to fifty knots.
During his test pilots’ course, Rob had placed various aircraft in all sorts of marginal situations. He felt this was acceptable.
JR agreed.
He shrugged. “Well, we’ll find out one way or another.”
Rob donned his flying coveralls and the three of them headed out to the waiting aircraft.
A FEW MINUTES AFTER JR, Rob and Susie had left, a phone rang on the 47 Squadron operations desk. The duty desk sergeant picked it up.
“47 Squadron Operations. Sergeant Wilkes… Thank you. Put him through.”
As he listened, he jotted down an aircraft serial number.
TX183
“I think so. Stand by, I’ll check.”
Wilkes could have done without this extra task on a busy morning. Cupping the receiver, he looked across to his corporal.
“Those VIPs? Were they in an Anson?”
“I think so.”
“Serial?” He waited as the corporal opened the visitor log and ran his finger down to the last entry.
“Tango X-Ray one-eight-three”
“What time did they leave?”
The corporal looked at the wall clock. “Ten minutes ago.”
The sergeant uncapped the phone. “You’ve just missed them, sorry.”
A new voice appeared at the other end of the line and the sergeant had to hold the receiver away from his ear.
“Yes, sir.” He dropped the phone and shouted at the corporal.
“Stop the Anson!”
ROB SWITCHED on the main magnetos in the aircraft and switched off the starting mags. He scanned the rest of the checklist while a member of the ground crew outside waved to confirm he had screwed down the priming pump and closed the priming cock.
He watched as JR opened the engine up to one thousand RPM.
“Pain, but we have to warm the engine for a minute or two.”
Rob monitored the engine temperature gauges. The white needle inched slowly around the dial.
Susie appeared between them.
“You’re best to keep seated,” Rob shouted above the engine noise, but she pointed out of the window.
An RAF police car was driving toward the air traffic tower. They watched it pull to a halt before a policeman jumped out and looked toward them.
“For us?” Rob said.
“I think so. Perhaps we should get going?”
JR didn’t need asking twice. He released the park brake and gave a wave to the ground crew, who showed him three chocks. He pushed the throttles and the aircraft crept forward.
Rob kept his eyes on the policeman. He was running toward them.
“Are you going to radio the tower?” JR asked.
“I think that would be futile now.”
“Agreed.”
JR swung the Anson onto the westerly taxiway and taxied as fast as he dared.
The radio burst into life. “Anson, Shorthand one-three, you are requested to shut down .”
Rob watched through the side window as the policeman, reacting to the plane’s movement, stopped and ran back to his car.
The radio shouted at them again. “Shorthand one-three you are ordered to stop taxi and shutdown immediately.’
“Shall we turn that off?” Rob said.
“Good idea.” JR turned the rotary dial.
The crossing point for the main runway was straight ahead, about halfway along its length.
“Plenty of space for this old girl,” JR said.
Rob selected a take-off flap setting and craned his head around. The police car swung onto the taxiway and disappeared behind them. It must have been doing fifty MPH; they were doing about twenty. The policeman would be level with them, or worse, in front of them, in moments.
The turn onto the main runway was still a hundred yards away.
But they were facing into wind.
“Just go,” Rob said.
JR looked at him. “What?”
“Use the taxiway. We’ve run out of time, JR. Let’s just go!”
JR pushed the throttles forward, and they both monitored the engines, which should have had more of a chance to warm up.
The airspeed indicator lumbered slowly up.
“Come on, come on…” Rob willed the aircraft to accelerate.
He looked around, pressing against the window, trying to glimpse the police car, only to see it had caught up with them and was now attempting to overtake, one set of wheels on the grass.
“Shit, he’s going to get in front of us!”
Forty-five knots, fifty knots.
The needle was agonisingly slow to respond.
The police car came level with the leading edge of the wing.
The driver seemed to find a burst of energy from the engine and it moved ahead, level with the nose.
Sixty-five knots.
JR eased the yoke back.
But the aircraft stayed planted.
The police car inched further ahead.
“If he gets clear, he’ll pull in front and we’re done for!” Rob shouted.
Susie stood up again, gripping the back of the two cockpit seats.
“COME ON!” she yelled over the din of the engines.
The Anson’s wings finally began to bite and the aircraft lifted slowly into the air, leaving the police car way behind.
JR kept the nose close to the horizon, allowing the airspeed to build, before nudging it up, teasing the vintage aircraft into a gentle, if reluctant, climb.
“Better keep your chart out and radio off,” said Rob. “We’re going to navigate old-school.”
JR continued the gentle bank. Rob scanned the scene below. Two more police cars caught up with the one that had been chasing them. A crowd of men in various uniforms stood around the base of the tower.
“This is it now. We’re committed.”
JR laughed. “You could say that.”
The Oxfordshire countryside slipped by. JR kept the battered silver Anson just below the clouds, with the nose pointing south-east.
Rob tapped the compass heading.
“Let’s throw them off the scent a little, leave the west until Reading when we’re well out of sight.”
“Good idea.”
Rob studied the chart.
“That’s Didcot ahead.” He pointed. “See the brown sprawl beyond? That’s Reading.”
“Got it,” JR confirmed.
Rob retrieved a pencil from his coveralls pocket and drew a rough line from Reading to a point between Bristol and Bath.