A unique feature of the MD902 Explorer is that it’s equipped with NOTAR technology. The acronym stands for no tail rotor system. In other words, instead of having a big spinning tail rotor like most other helicopters, the MD902 expelled air out of its tail at one-hundred-and-twenty miles per hour to stop it from spinning.
“Shit, shit and double shit!” Dillon cursed, breaking into a sprint. The engine noise increased substantially as he closed on the aircraft, closely followed by the SO19 Inspector, who was calling for him to come back.
Eric stoically dropped to his knee and raised his carbine ready to provide covering fire if it became necessary.
Ignoring the tremendous downdraught, Dillon grabbed hold of Cummings and quickly dragged him to safety. For a moment, as he stood there shielding his face with his hand, he thought he caught sight of Winston inside the cabin, but he couldn’t be sure, having only snatched a brief glimpse of the man’s side profile. Moving forward again, he waved his arms and shouted at the pilot to switch off his machine and get out, but his voice was smothered by the roar of the turbines.
And then the helicopter lifted off. It hovered directly above them for a short time; tantalisingly close, but for all intents and purposes it might as well have been a million miles away.
Dillon stared up, blinking away the storm of dust particles that battered his face; whisked up by the powerful gust of wind the aircraft had generated.
“They haven’t even seen us, the bastards,” he shouted above the noise.
The realisation suddenly hit him hard.
Winston had done it – he had got away.
Dillon felt painfully impotent as he stood there, desperately wishing that there was something – anything – he could do to make the helicopter land, but there wasn’t. As he watched, the aircraft began to climb, shrinking in size as it gained height. “Holland’s not gonna be very happy about this," he told himself, feeling utterly despondent.
A hand rested heavily on his shoulder. “Come on, Tony. There’s a lot to be done.”
“I’m coming Pat,” Dillon acknowledged gravely. He gave the disappearing helicopter one last look and then shook his head in despair, which only served to aggravate his injured neck.
◆◆◆
They crossed the windswept tarmac in silence, descended the ramp, and then followed the markers until they found the control room.
Dillon desperately needed to know whether the Met Air Support Unit had either of its aircraft up. If either India 98 or 99 could establish visual contact with the HEMS bird before it came down, it might be possible to track the rogue helicopter from a distance and guide ground units in to intercept the hijackers as they landed. It was a long shot, which was why he also needed to find out whether ATC relied purely on radio communications or if they had any other means of tracking the HEMS helicopter.
Was it fitted with a transponder, for instance?
If so, could ATC track it from the ground?
His contingency plan, if the ASU were unable to help, relied upon ATC being able to monitor the aircraft’s descent on radar or by transponder or by whatever means they used while directing ground-based units towards the general area it was coming down in. This would be a lot more haphazard, requiring IR to muster sufficient resources to flood a large area in the hope that one of the ground units would be able to reach the helicopter before the hijackers decamped.
If neither plan was viable, they were well and truly screwed.
As Connors disappeared into the control room, Dillon paused at the door and glanced back up into the cold, unwelcoming sky. It had started to rain again, reducing visibility, but in the distance, he could just make out the fading red shape of the air ambulance, its anti-collision lights flashing brightly as it flew over the city towards the east.
◆◆◆
The three-man crew of India 99 were drinking tea in the operations room at Lippitts Hill when the call to scramble came through to them via MSS – the message switching system employed by the Met.
Sergeant Phillip Webber, the senior officer of the watch, read it carefully. “Ruddy heck!” he exclaimed, reading the telex again to make sure that he hadn’t made a mistake. “Jon, Keith, let’s scramble! We’ve got a really hot one, this time.” They ran the short distance to the aircraft, which had just finished being refuelled.
Jonathan Danvers, their civilian pilot, started the Squirrel up, running through the pre-flight checks with practised ease. Webber briefed them both on the hijacking while this was being done.
Within minutes they were airborne and racing towards the red air ambulance’s last known location.
◆◆◆
“How fast can that thing move?” Dillon asked Mike Cummings, who sat nursing a bruised and lacerated face. Someone had found him a bag of ice, and he was pressing this into his jawline without enthusiasm. The man appeared to have a mild concussion, but he had repeatedly refused to go and get himself treated until he knew that the pilot was safe.
Cummings shrugged. “It’ll do about a hundred-and-fifty miles per hour in a straight line, and we pride ourselves on being able to reach any point inside the M25 within fifteen minutes.”
Dillon grimaced. “That’s too damn fast for my liking,” he said acidly. “How long can it remain airborne?”
Cummings scratched his head as he considered this. “Well, if memory serves, it carries 564 litres of fuel and it has a range of 328 nautical miles on a full tank,” he said.
“That’s right,” Daniel Reed confirmed. He had been in the toilet when the helicopter had been taken, and he was racked with guilt for not having been there to support his friend and colleague, Myers.
“And has it got that much fuel in it now? I understand you only returned from a call-out a little while ago.”
Reed nodded. He was a short man in his mid-thirties with
