Revenger

96

The day had been reasonably fine up to now, but the rain started falling again as Carver turned off the dual carriageway, drove down a narrow, unmarked road, passed a series of warehouses used as office or industrial spaces, and pulled up in a small visitor’s car park outside a building that was a fine example of 1930s Art Deco-inspired modernism. Its lines were sleek. It was painted in pure, simple white, albeit that the purity was somewhat marred by the rust stains, brought on by the salty sea air, that spread from the metal fittings attached to the building, like the railings around the top of the walls and the loudspeakers wired to either side.

This was the heart of a facility that was the oldest of its kind in the entire United Kingdom: Shoreham Airport.

Kevin Cripps was waiting to meet him.

‘She’s over there,’ he said, pointing to the ranks of private aircraft lined up on the apron. ‘Second row back, third from the end. I’ve got the key and, oh yeah, here’s the other thing you asked for.’

He handed over a surprisingly insignificant starter key, and a blue object that looked like a car-seat cushion, with a strap at each corner. It was an emergency parachute, designed for aerobatics pilots who found themselves in trouble and needed to bail out, fast.

‘Thanks,’ said Carver. ‘You got the money?’

‘Every penny.’ Cripps grinned. ‘And I even got the car back, and all. Oh, while I remember… the way the wind is blowing, you’ll want to use this runway, right here.’ He pointed out across the field to a point just beyond the lines of planes. ‘You’ll be starting at this end, so you shouldn’t have any trouble getting there. Then just turn the plane into the wind, slam on the power and you’re off.’

‘It’s a bit more complicated than that, but thanks. The plane’s ready to go, right?’

‘Absolutely. Had her filled and pre-flight checked by the bloke who sold her. He even gave me a little test flight, just to prove she was in perfect working order, nice little spin round the airfield.’

‘You’d better help me on with this,’ Carver said, holding up the parachute.

Neither man was a qualified pilot, but both had their parachute wings, so Cripps was swift and efficient as he helped Carver into the harness.

The job had just been completed when Carver heard a sound with which he was becoming altogether too familiar: the sirens of approaching police cars.

‘Looks like I’m going to need the car a little bit longer,’ Carver said. ‘Thanks for everything.’ He held out his hand.

Cripps grinned, held out his and was taken completely by surprise when Carver swung his right arm up and hit him hard the special forces way, with the heel of his hand, just to the side of his chin. Cripps reeled with the blow and Carver grabbed his shoulders.

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘You bought the plane for me in all innocence. You had no idea why I wanted it. When I got here, I attacked you and overpowered you. Like this…’

He let go of Cripps’s arms, swung his leg round and tripped him over. Cripps lay sprawled on the ground as Carver got into the car and drove straight at the low metal fence that separated the car park from the apron. The Mazda smashed through it and Carver drove straight towards the nine-year-old Cessna 172 that he had found online that morning and then asked Cripps to buy.

Shoreham is only a very minor airport and on a cold, grey afternoon in November, with the light failing as the rain sets in, traffic is almost non-existent. A single Shell petrol bowser was filling up one of the aircraft about fifty metres from Carver’s craft, but that aside there were no signs of life anywhere.

Apart, that is, from the police cars that could be seen coming through a gate on the very far side of the airfield, racing in Carver’s direction.

He got out of the car, opened the boot and slung Grantham over his shoulder, noticing only too late the damp, acrid wet patch at the front of Grantham’s trousers that was now pressing against the shoulder of Trent Peck’s fancy leather flying jacket. Carver opened the door of the plane and hefted Grantham on to the passenger seat, where he lay, wriggling feebly, until Carver sat him up and strapped him in.

Then he took his place in the pilot’s seat.

Carver had never in his life flown an aircraft. But as the 9/11 bombers had demonstrated, it was possible to do a great deal with an aircraft without qualifying as a pilot. And he didn’t need to do much beyond getting this thing up in the air and pointing it in the right direction.

One of the tasks he had been undertaking as he’d sat in front of his iPad, eating his porridge and chocolate bars, was to look at some of the very many clips on YouTube showing the pre-flight and take-off routines for a Cessna 172, which has been built in greater numbers than any other aircraft on earth. He had also downloaded and worked on a flight simulator. He was pleasantly surprised to discover how similar the imitation had been to the real thing. The instrument panel in front of him was entirely familiar, as was the routine.

He pulled the big red fuel-mixture knob fully out. He pulled the throttle out a little less than a centimeter. He turned the battery and the fuel pump on, let it run for a while, and turned it off again.

Then he turned the key, the engine caught at the first attempt, and the propellor started whirling round in front of him.

Carver pushed the fuel-mixture knob back in, made sure the flaps were up, and moments later the plane was taxiing towards the runway.

Up ahead Carver could see the lights of the police cars cutting across the grass outfield. He presumed they were aiming for the middle of the runway, trying to head him off. They’d probably be trying to radio him, too, telling him to turn off his engine. But the radio wasn’t on, and anyway he didn’t have a headset, so the hell with that.

He had to admit that his steering could do with a little refinement. The plane slewed around the apron like a Saturday-night drunk, but it was only a matter of seconds before he found himself at the start of the runway, pointing directly at the lights of the oncoming cars, and maxing the throttle.

And then he noticed that he didn’t just have cars to worry about. A police helicopter, stationed at the airfield, was rising into the air from an apron to the left of the runway. It hovered for a second, maybe twenty metres above the ground, and then darted to its right.

Now Carver was picking up speed.

The police cars were coming straight at him.

The helicopter was cutting across his path.

Aircraft speed is measured the same way as the speed of ships: in knots. Carver had memorized the take-off speed of a Cessna 172, which was sixty-four knots, or a little less than seventy-five miles per hour. From what he could gather from his research this morning, it took between ten and fifteen seconds for a plane like his to get up to that speed.

He had been heading down the runway for eight seconds. The cars were coming towards him at least as fast as he was heading towards them. Call it an impact speed of a hundred and fifty miles per hour; enough to write off anyone involved in the collision.

If the helicopter were to crash into him in mid-air, everyone in both crafts would certainly be killed, as might anyone caught beneath the falling debris.

The oncoming cars were now so close he was dazzled by their headlights.

The helicopter was buzzing around so insistently its engine was audible over the racket of his own.

Someone had to back down within the next second or they’d all be dead.

And Carver kept going. He didn’t slow down. He didn’t veer off course in any way. Because he knew he had a single decisive tactical advantage over everyone else on or over the airfield.

He really didn’t give a damn if he crashed.

They did. They wanted to go home for their tea that night. That was why the stream of cars divided to the left and right of the Cessna. The helicopter veered away. Carver pulled on the joystick and the plane rose up into the air and headed straight ahead, over the airfield and the town and out across the English Channel beyond.