Rather than plow into the demonstrators, Seagrave pulled back on the stick, and the Lightning lifted into the air, shaking off its earthly shackles, and returned to where it belonged. Seagrave allowed a tight smile when he saw the protesters fall away as the jet barely cleared their heads, accelerating through 190 knots. He snapped the gear handle up. Again his voice was amazingly calm as he keyed the radio. “Tower, Lightning One is lifting off. No choice in the matter. We’re overweight and need to burn off fuel before landing. Please clear the runway.”
The tower controller was frantic. “Remain within ten miles of the field. You are cleared to maneuver at your discretion. I, ah, we have no idea what’s going on. I’m ringing security to clear the runway.”
“Capital idea.” He turned to Liz. “Well, this is a bit more than I bargained for. I do hope we didn’t singe too many hairs.”
“Not me,” Liz answered.
The old habits were back, and Seagrave scanned the instruments as he leveled off at four thousand feet on the downwind side of the landing pattern. The left main landing-gear light flickered from green to red for a few seconds. Out of habit he tapped the light, not that it would have done any good. The light flickered again. “Probably a microswitch,” he told Liz. “But it could mean the gear is not up and locked properly.” The light flickered again, and he considered recycling the gear. Then the light went out, indicating all was well.
He keyed the radio. “Tower, I had an ‘unsafe gear’ light, but all appears well now. Would appreciate a visual.”
“You’re cleared for a low approach and overshoot,” the tower answered. “The circuit is reserved for you to maneuver at your discretion.”
“Cleared for the approach,” Seagrave replied. He turned final and lined up on the runway as they descended. He slowed to 240 knots and kept the gear and flaps retracted. Ahead of them he could see the runway, still packed with protesters at the halfway point. “What are those fools doing?” he muttered. He flew past the tower at fifty feet and pulled up, again accelerating.
“I have no idea,” Liz said. “But you did get their attention, and a few are leaving.”
“Your gear doors appear to be fully closed,” the tower radioed. “Your underside scans clean.”
“Very good,” Seagrave replied. “What are those bloody fools doing down there?”
“Security reports demonstrators are sitting down on the runway and refuse to move. We’ve called for help.”
Seagrave hid his irritation as they did two turns in the circuit, holding at four thousand feet. Liz studied the crowd on the runway each time they flew past, her exasperation growing at the lack of progress. She reached over and touched his arm, her eyes sparkling. “Maybe we could do a high-speed pass to encourage a few others to leave, yes?” She tried to look innocent and helpful.
He caught the look in her eyes. She may have been with the CAA, but her head was screwed on straight. “A very good idea,” he said. “And we are cleared to maneuver at our discretion.” He keyed the radio. “Tower, this time around will be a high-speed pass.”
“Roger,” the tower answered. “Stay above two hundred feet and no faster than six hundred knots.”
Seagrave flew a curvilinear approach to final and leveled off at four-hundred feet. “I don’t believe they’ve seen us yet. But they soon will.” He inched the Lightning down to two hundred feet and stroked the afterburners, the airspeed bouncing off six hundred knots. He passed over the demonstrators and rotated. “Full reheat now,” he said, shoving the throttles into max afterburner.
Liz twisted her head, looking back and fighting the G’s as she gave the demonstrators the finger. “Bastards!” she shouted. “That singed the odd hair or two.”
Seagrave allowed a tight smile. His passenger was a fighter pilot at heart. He leveled off at eight thousand feet and flew a wide downwind, rapidly descending back to four thousand feet. He automatically scanned the instrument panel once again. “Not good,” he muttered. “We’re losing hydraulic pressure.” He pointed to the Services Pressure Gauge. “It should be steady at three thousand PSI.” The needle was slowly dropping, falling toward the red sector.
“Is that bad?” Liz asked.
“It will be if we don’t get down.” He keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe, we have a problem. I’m losing hydraulic pressure and need to land immediately.”
“Stand by,” the tower answered.
“I can’t stand by too long,” Seagrave replied. “Request vectors to the nearest suitable field for landing.”
A much-relieved tower controller answered, “The runway is open. You’re cleared all the way. Check three greens.”
Seagrave lowered the undercarriage. Two lights blinked green at him. But the left main gear stayed red. “Tower, I have an unsafe condition on my left main. Request a flyby to check undercarriage down.” He selected flaps, hoping there was enough pressure in the system to lower them. There was.
“Cleared for a low approach,” the tower answered. This time Seagrave flew by at 175 knots, as slow as possible. He gently yawed the aircraft to help gravity pull the gear down. “Your left main is still up,” the tower radioed.
“Selecting emergency undercarriage now,” Seagrave answered, his voice still calm. His left hand dropped down beside his seat and he pulled the U/C selector button on the floor. “Just another day on the job,” he muttered to himself. But Liz caught it and understood. Like most fighter pilots, Seagrave would rather die than sound bad. Now it was a question of maneuvering as smoothly as possible while getting back around for landing. They entered downwind. He kept talking on the intercom to reassure his passenger. “Flying is a bit more demanding since the artificial feel and autostabs have quit. But it’s no big deal.”
“I have you in the binocs,” the tower radioed. “Your undercarriage appears down and locked.”
“How encouraging,” Seagrave answered. “But I still have a red.” He turned final and again gently yawed the aircraft, hoping gravity might perform some magic. It did, and the offending light turned to green. Then it blinked red to green and back. “Do make up your mind,” Seagrave groused. “No need to amuse the spectators with a gear-up landing.” As if on cue, the light turned steady green. The runway, finally clear of the demonstrators, loomed up in front of them. “Crossing in now, one seventy-five, ease back gently, gently, one fifty-five, one fifty, ah, there we are.” It was a picture-perfect landing. He eased the nosewheel onto the runway. “Brake chute now, Liz.”
Her hand flashed out and pulled the handle, straight and smooth as he had told her. The chute popped out from the base of the vertical stabilizer and snapped open. He tapped the brakes, depleting the last of the pressure accumulator. They stopped on the runway, still going straight ahead. Seagrave’s right hand danced on the console. “HP fuel cocks off.” The engines died of fuel starvation and spun down. Seagrave keyed the radio. “Cranthorpe tower, Lightning One is down. We’ll need a tow back to dispersal. Thanks for the help. Good show all round.” He peeled off his oxygen mask and smiled to Liz. “Ground crew will have to use a hand pump to open the canopy. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”
Liz reached out and touched his cheek. Her hand was warm. “That was the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“You were brilliant. And that entitles you to say the three magic words: ‘Cheated death again.’”
“Cheated death again,” she repeated.