45

Mid-air, en route to Rosconway

The two Augusta Power Elite helicopters packed with VIPs took off six minutes late, but the pilots put the hammer down and made up time along the way. ‘Don’t worry, everyone, we’re going to arrive bang on time,’ the RAF lieutenant at the controls of the lead craft assured his passengers. Nikki Wilkins passed the news on to her colleagues on the ground.

‘This could get interesting,’ she was told. ‘We’re still a couple of TV crews short. Channel Four News should make it in time, but God only knows where the missing BBC lot have got to.’

‘Do you want us to slow down, then?’ Wilkins asked.

‘No. Get here on time. You’re due at ten forty, right?’

‘That’s the time I was given, yes.’

‘Right then, let’s try to stick to the schedule if we possibly can. If the BBC don’t get their own pictures, that’s their problem. They’ll just have to take a feed from someone else.’

‘What’s it like there, though — apart from all the madness? You think this is going to work?’

‘Well, that depends… if the TV people all turn up, and if there isn’t some God-awful cock-up, this is a great place to do it. You’ve got this huge industrial complex — you know, all steel and concrete and flaming chimneys — set against this stunning coastline. And the weather looks pretty good. Plenty of blue sky, fluffy clouds, bright sunshine. I think we’re going to get some spectacular pictures.’

‘That sounds great,’ said Nikki Wilkins. ‘Full speed ahead!’

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