Winston glared at him with menace. “Come on, man. Let’s go!” he demanded impatiently.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” Myers snapped back. It was a lie, but the man with the gun didn’t know that. “I have to do the pre-flight checks or we could all end up dead, okay!”
He glanced across the rooftop at his injured friend, who was sluggishly trying to pull himself up off of the cold tarmac. “Starting her up,” Myers said, hitting the switches. Both engines immediately came to life. The four rotor blades began to turn, slowly at first but quickly gaining in momentum. He keyed the radio toggle. “Heathrow from Helimed 27, seeking permission to leave the Royal London. Flight plan to follow, over.”
“Turn that radio off,” Winston ordered, leaning forward to prod the pilot in the back with the gun.
Myers glanced over his shoulder angrily. “Listen, chum, I have to speak to them. If we don’t get clearance to lift off, we could end up climbing straight into the path of another aircraft and then we’re all dead. Now let me get on with my job.”
“Helimed 27 from Heathrow ATC, what’s your tasking code and direction for your flight, over?”
There were three different tasking codes for the air ambulance. The first, Alpha, meant that it was going on an operational flight, for example deploying to an incident or transporting a patient from the scene to the hospital. The second, Echo, was typically used to denote that the aircraft was returning to base having finished its Alpha tasking. The final code, Zulu, indicated that the aircraft was undertaking a training or maintenance flight.
“Er, Heathrow, I have three passengers onboard holding me at gunpoint, and I’m being ordered to fly them away from the hospital to evade arrest, over.”
There was a long silence.
“Helimed 27 from Heathrow, can you repeat, over? I must have misheard because it sounded like you said you were being hijacked.”
“You heard correctly,” Myers responded, tetchily. “And these people don’t play nice, so I’m taking off or getting shot. What’s it to be?”
More silence. And then a strained voice said, “Helimed 27, that’s all received. Take off at your discretion. Climb to fifteen-hundred. VFR one-kilometre.”
VFR – Visual Flight Rules – are the regulations under which a pilot operates an aircraft in good visual conditions, as opposed to flying that relies on instruments. In order to fly under VFR, the pilot must be able to see outside the aircraft for a minimum safe distance, navigate visually from landmarks, and be able to visually avoid all land and air obstacles that might be encountered during the flight – these included skyscrapers, telephone poles and, of course, other aircraft.
There is a requirement for some VFR aircraft, like the one Myers was flying, to be equipped with a transponder in order to assist Air Traffic Control to identify it on radar, thereby providing separation to IFR – Instrument Flight Rules – aircraft.
Myers checked to see that the tail was clear before applying more power, pulling up on the collective and lifting the helicopter into the cold grey afternoon sky. The wind was picking up, and the aircraft was buffeted as he hovered it above the landing pad, while the pilot looked around to make sure that nothing was in his intended path.
“Okay Mr Gunman, where am I taking you?” Myer asked.
“Just head for Barking in East London, man. I’ll tell you more when we’re on our way,” Winston shouted to be heard above the engine noise, not realising that the headset he had donned had a sophisticated built-in communication system. “And don’t tell those motherfuckers on the radio.”
“But they need to know…” Myers began, but his protest was cut short.
“Just do as you’re told, you dumb fuck,” Winston barked, cutting him off angrily. “Stop making pony excuses and fly this damn thing.” He was already beginning to feel queasy as the aircraft was rocked back and forth by the strong wind.
“Fair enough,” Myers replied, and the aircraft commenced a turbulent climb as he set a course for Barking.
Winston had always suffered badly from travel sickness and, within seconds, he was looking around urgently. “Quick, somebody find me a sick bag,” he gagged. “I think I’m gonna puke.”
The radio was chattering away furiously, with the base controller demanding to know what was going on. Myers ignored him, glancing over his shoulder to study his captors.
“So, where exactly do I take you?” he asked conversationally, as though this was an everyday occurrence.
“Head for the East Ham ski slope, please,” Garston instructed. His pallor was almost as grey as Claude’s. “And we would all be extremely grateful if you would try your best to keep this thingflying smoothly.”
He tried to distance himself from his uncle as the larger man threw up again. The acrid smell, which seemed to impregnate everything around it, was revolting, and the sight of the green bile oozing out of the corner of Claude’s mouth made Garston want to wretch.
◆◆◆
As soon as they emerged onto the bitterly cold roof, two-hundred-and-eighty-feet above the streets of East London, they heard the unmistakable sound of the helicopter powering up.
“Over there,” Dillon said, pointing in the direction that the sound was coming from. He made to set off towards the ramp, but Connors blocked his path. “Stay behind us,” the Trojan Inspector ordered firmly.
Dillon found this very frustrating, but he nodded his acceptance.
The landing pad loomed above them like a giant trampoline. A large red sign prohibited entry for unauthorised personnel. They proceeded slowly, ready to take cover if they came under fire. As they reached the top, Dillon saw the red Air Ambulance had passengers in it, and was about to lift off.
His stomach knotted.
“Look!” Connors shouted, pointing towards a man in blue overalls who was staggering across the tarmac like a drunk, holding the side of
