One of Us Is Dead

86 Tuesday 18 October 2022

At 7.25 a.m., a red and yellow chequered SUV with blue rooflights, marked Fire Crew on the door, drove around from behind the terminal building, and pulled up opposite the hangar in front of the corrugated-iron building with large windows that had a yellow sign sticking out. BRIEFING ROOM C.

Paul Anthony, shivering a little more now, watched from behind the fuel truck as two men in thick blue sweatshirts, baggy blue trousers and trainers climbed out of the vehicle, unlocked the Briefing Room door, entered and switched on the lights. Moments later, he saw them come back out, walk over to the massive hangar doors and start to slide them open, with a loud screeching and clattering sound. The superstructure of the hangar looked far larger in the growing daylight than it had in shadowy darkness.

After a minute or so the doors were fully open and he could see a few of the light aircraft parked in there, a couple partially cloaked with silver protective covers, and a small Cessna jet. Hopefully the Pilatus that Taylor would be flying was in here too.

Somehow, he had to get in, without being seen. He had the tabard and hard hat, and the spiel to go with it if he did get challenged, but better if no one saw him. He looked at the windows of Briefing Room C and saw the two men moving around. Then they came out again, got into the SUV and drove off.

He couldn’t believe his luck!

The moment the vehicle was out of sight, he made a dash for the hangar and entered it, passing a yellow tug that looked like a lawnmower without a blade. AIRCRAFTCADDY was stencilled down the side. He breathed in smells of engine oil, rubber, paint and varnish in the cold air, and looked around. There were at least a dozen small aircraft in here, but it didn’t take him long to locate the one he was after. The Pilatus PC-12 was a pressurized single-engined turbo-prop aircraft. From the front it resembled a Second World War Spitfire. It was gleaming, sleek, like a bird of prey, sitting on small wheels with fat tyres.

He looked around carefully for any sign of anyone else in here. The place was deserted. He smiled. It had been worth the wait. Well worth it.

Then just as he reached the Pilatus he was startled by a howling banshee wail, like an air-raid siren. Shit, he thought. Shit, shit, shit. He looked desperately around. Had he triggered this? How?

Then it stopped, slowly, taking several seconds to wind down. He breathed out. A routine test, he figured, either a fire alarm or a crash alarm.

He looked around carefully, but could see no one. Then he reached for the aircraft’s rear-door handle and pulled it. As he had expected, it was unlocked.