Authors: Vince May
At the same time, the pilot of the police
helicopter lost his nerve and applied full power to lift off out of the way of
the charging Golden Eagle. He managed to get the machine about ten feet off the
ground and was desperately trying to clear the runway when the left wheel of
the Golden Eagle smashed through his tail rotor, skewing the helicopter around
and sending it spinning out of control.
The impact shredded the Golden Eagle’s tire
and bent the undercarriage leg, but didn’t impede the powerful aircraft’s
progress into the sky. Ross had thought he was going to clear the helicopter,
but when it had started to rise up in front of him he’d known a collision was
unavoidable. When it came, there was a loud bang from below the port wing, but
no loss of control. Now, as he banked steeply to the left looking out over his
shoulder, he scanned the field below to see what had happened to the other
machine.
As he watched, the dark blue helicopter
ballooned about fifty feet up into the air under full power, then careered
drunkenly, spinning out of control across the airstrip boundary before crashing
through the roof of the farmhouse.
The explosion was immense as the ruptured
fuel tanks sprayed aviation fuel all over the red hot turbines, engulfing the
farmhouse in flames and sending a greasy black mushroom cloud high into the
air. Ross closed his eyes for a moment then completed his turn and climbed out
towards the sea, retracting the damaged undercarriage as he went.
.
Hubbard and Butcher turned onto the track
leading to the farm just as the farmhouse erupted in flames. ‘Jesus Christ!’
Hubbard shouted, ‘What the hell happened?’
‘Looks like the chopper’s gone down!’
Butcher replied, staring incredulously at the burning building. ‘Those poor
bastards don’t stand a chance!’
‘Three men!’ Hubbard screamed, ‘three good
men! I’m going to get that stuck-up bastard if it’s the last thing I do! Get
the registration before he gets out of sight!’ Butcher noted the aircraft’s
registration while Hubbard accelerated up the track towards the airstrip, where
the other officers were out of their cars, some staring towards the burning
farmhouse, others watching the Golden Eagle as it disappeared towards the
coast.
Hubbard skidded to a halt outside the
hangar, jumped out of the car and screamed, ‘Don’t just stand there, get down
to the house and see what you can do!’ As the officers piled into their cars,
Hubbard rushed into the hangar, jumped up onto the wing of a Piper Warrior and
wrenched the door open.
‘You’re not going after him in that, are
you?’ Butcher asked with dismay as he followed his boss.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Hubbard snapped, ‘I
can’t fly, but I’ve been in these things before and I know how to use the
radio!’ Pulling a headset on, he flicked the master switches up then turned the
knob on the radio set. Almost immediately, he heard the voice of a controller
speaking to an aircraft. As soon as the exchange had finished, he pressed the
transmit button on the yoke and said, ‘This is the police calling air traffic
control, do you read?’
‘Station calling London Information, please
say your call sign,’ the London air traffic controller snapped.
‘London Information,’ Hubbard replied
coolly, ‘I have no call sign, I am a police officer on the ground. We are in
pursuit of a dangerous criminal who has just escaped in a twin engine aircraft,
registration Golf-Sierra-India-Romeo-Romeo. I want you to track his movements,
he can’t be allowed to get away.’
‘Roger police unit, the aircraft is still
on this frequency and has just been given clearance to route across the Channel
to Le Havre and free-call the Lille controller. Present position is ten miles
south of Brighton at five thousand feet. Will pass your request for tracking on
to Lille.’
Ross engaged the autopilot, and was just
getting comfortable in the cockpit thinking he’d got clean away when he heard
Hubbard talking to the controller. He’d planned to route over to Le Havre, then
travel on towards Chamonix at low level in uncontrolled airspace, losing
himself among the hundreds of other Sunday afternoon flyers over France. He
hadn’t expected Hubbard to be so quick off the mark alerting the air traffic
control authorities. Yet again, he thought, that pushy, arrogant copper’s
ruined my plans. Then he heard Hubbard’s voice again, addressing him directly.
‘Webley, I know you can hear me, now
listen. You might as well turn around and give yourself up. You are directly
responsible for the death of three police officers. You will be tracked
relentlessly by the authorities wherever you go. When you eventually land,
there will be police waiting to meet you. You don’t stand a chance of getting
away.’
Ross didn’t answer. Listening to Hubbard’s
stern, authoritative voice, he knew that what he was saying was true. He also
knew that he would never give himself up, not to rot for the rest of his life
in some jail.
Reaching out, he switched the radio off.
Back on the ground, Hubbard repeated his
appeal over the radio, but was then asked by the controller to clear the
frequency and to call the duty supervisor at the Gatwick control center by
telephone. After writing the number down, Hubbard switched the radio and
electrics in the Warrior off and climbed down from the wing.
‘Bastard didn’t respond,’ he said angrily
to Butcher, who had only been able to hear one side of the exchange on the
radio. ‘I’ve got to call the controller at Gatwick on the phone now.’
Walking out of the barn, Hubbard looked
over towards the farmhouse where he could see two fire engines starting to play
water onto the roof, which was still burning fiercely. ‘There goes the Crawford
case,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Forensics were due to go back in tomorrow and
go over the entire house with a fine-tooth comb. If there was any other
evidence in there, it’s gone now.’
‘But he’s proved his guilt by making a run
for it,’ Butcher reasoned.
‘You know that, and I know that, but try
making it stand up in court,’ Hubbard said dejectedly, as he walked towards the
car punching numbers into his cell phone.
Hubbard’s call to the supervising
controller at Gatwick was answered quickly. Once he’d introduced himself, he
asked, ‘Any more news on Webley’s aircraft?’
‘He’s turned onto a heading of
one-three-six degrees and climbed to twelve thousand feet. Still not responding
to repeated radio calls. In another few minutes he’ll be out of English
airspace.’
Hubbard swore under his breath. ‘If he
sticks to his new course, where will it take him?’
‘Hold on, I’ll just check on the chart,’
the controller replied. Coming back half a minute later, he said ‘A course of
one-three-six from his present position will take him over the northern suburbs
of Paris then on down towards Lake Geneva. Nothing much to get in his way at
twelve thousand feet until he gets to the Alps.’
An alarm bell rang in Hubbard’s mind. ‘I
think I know where he’s going!’ he said excitedly. ‘What can we do to stop
him?’
‘In about another three minutes, absolutely
nothing. He’ll be in French airspace.’
‘Damn!’ Hubbard exploded, ‘Who can I speak
to over there, do you know?’
‘Best person would be my opposite number at
Orly. I don’t know the name, but I can give you a number if you like.’
Hubbard noted the number, thanked the
controller, then rang off. While he’d been talking, a battered Landrover had
made its way up the track and parked nearby. Hubbard and Butcher walked over to
it as an old man climbed out of the cab. ‘Who are you?’ Hubbard asked, flashing
his warrant card.
‘I’m Harry Perkins,’ the old man replied,
‘I look after the aircraft here. I saw all the commotion from the village and
thought Sir Ross had had an accident.’
‘It wasn’t Webley,’ Hubbard said, ‘it was a
police helicopter. Now you’re here though, maybe you can help. The big twin
that’s normally kept here, what type is it?’
‘She’s a Cessna 421B, known as a Golden
Eagle,’ Perkins replied.
‘How fast can it go?
‘Depends on how high you fly her.’
‘Say, twelve thousand feet. How fast will
it go at that height?’
Perkins thought for a moment then said,
‘I’d say between two-thirty and two-fifty, depending on the power setting.’
‘Miles an hour?’ Hubbard asked, making
notes.
‘Yes.’
‘Now, what about distance,’ Hubbard asked,
‘how far can it go.’
‘On full tanks, about fifteen-hundred
miles,’ Perkins replied.
‘And were the tanks full?’
‘Yes, I filled them myself when Sir Ross
came back on Thursday. He hasn’t used her since.’
‘Thank you,’ Hubbard said, closing his
notebook. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ As they walked back to the car, he said
to Butcher, ‘Come on, let’s get over to the local nick in Lewes. We need a base
to work from.’
Twenty minutes later they were installed in
the incident room at Lewes Police Station, which had been set up to cover the
Crawford shooting. Hubbard put a call through to the Paris Air Traffic Control
Center, and after explaining who he was and what he wanted, found that his
information was very welcome. The supervising controller told him they had been
going crazy trying to contact the unidentified aircraft that had entered their
airspace without clearance at 15:23 local time.
‘Can you confirm his heading is still
one-three-six?’ Hubbard asked.
‘That’s affirmative,’ the supervisor
replied in heavily accented but technically correct English. ‘His altitude and
heading have not varied at all since he entered our airspace.’
‘What do you intend to do?’ Hubbard asked.
‘If we get no response in the next few
minutes, I will request the Air Force send a fighter to escort him down.’
‘That would be perfect,’ Hubbard said with
satisfaction. ‘Please remember, he is a wanted criminal. Will you be able to
have the police detain him when he lands?’
‘Of course Monsieur, he has already broken
several laws, he will be arrested anyway. If you give me your number I will
call you back as soon as I know where he will be landing.’
Hubbard gave him the incident room number,
thanked him, then rang off. ‘All we can do now is wait,’ he said as he replaced
the receiver. ‘Let’s see if we can get some coffee.’
Half an hour later the telephone rang.
Hubbard snatched it up and heard the distinctive accent of the French
supervisor. ‘I’m afraid we have a problem,’ the Frenchman said.
‘What sort of problem?’ Hubbard asked
anxiously.
‘The Air Force sent two Mirage jets to
intercept the Cessna, but they could not get the pilot to respond to their
signals. One of them flew very close and could see the pilot slumped forward in
his seatbelt. He appeared to be unconscious.’
Hubbard’s mind raced as he tried to digest
the information he was being given. Heart attack, he wondered, suicide? The
supervisor was speaking again, ‘The Air Force has taken over responsibility for
this now. They are projecting the track of the aircraft forward. If it looks
like it will crash in a populated area, they will shoot it down.’
The words snapped Hubbard back to
attention. ‘They can’t do that!’ he protested.
‘I’m afraid they can, and they will, if
they need to,’ the Frenchman assured him. ‘Now, they have asked me to get some
more information. Do you know how much fuel the Cessna has on board?’
‘It was full when it took off,’ Hubbard
replied, ‘that should give it a range of over a thousand miles.’
‘Good, at least it should clear French
airspace. If it keeps going as it is, it should crash into the Mediterranean.’
‘Is it high enough to clear the Alps?’
Hubbard asked.
‘Standby, I have just been handed a message
from the Air Force.’ Hubbard waited a few seconds then heard the supervisor
say, ‘You are right, they predict that the aircraft will crash into the
mountains just south of the town of Chamonix in the French Alps.’
At the mention of the name Chamonix,
Hubbard knew he was right. ‘What time do they estimate the crash will occur?’
he asked.
‘Let’s see,’ the supervisor murmured,
‘16:57 local time, just under one hour from now.’
.
Down in Chamonix, Batard was sitting at his
desk, speaking to a senior French Air Force commander on the telephone. ‘We’ve
got a rogue aircraft heading your way at an altitude of 3,700 meters,’ the
commander was saying calmly, ‘the pilot is unconscious, probably dead.’
Batard’s blood ran cold as the commander
carried on. ‘No need to worry, we’ve projected its track forward and calculated
the exact point of impact to be in an unpopulated area to the south of you.’
‘Where exactly?’ Batard managed to ask.
‘Let me have a look… ah, here it is. Four
kilometers south of Chamonix on the north face of a 3,842 meter peak named
L’Aiguille du Midi,’ the commander said nonchalantly. ‘The civil aviation boys
will get a team down there tomorrow to pick up the pieces.’
Batard felt a cold sweat break out on his
forehead. ‘Commander,’ he said urgently, ‘you’ve got to stop that aircraft
before it gets here. There’s a huge cable-car station on the summit of
L’Aiguille du Midi which at this time of day is packed with hundreds of
visitors!’