Gavin Lyall - Shooting Script

I sat down, remembering the pattern; obviously taking over the radio station – so that you can tell the citizenry that you've taken over everything else even if you haven't – would be top priority.

'Getting anything?'

He frowned. 'No…'

'Well, who else'd have a radio turned on at two in the morning?'

'I hope that is it.' But he went on tuning.

'See if you can get Miami for some weather.'

But Miami was off the air or out of range.

I turned on the master switch. 'Let's go, then.'

He watched the lights come on across the instrument panel as I began the starting sequence. 'So – it is really going to happen?'

I looked up, surprised. 'That's what we're here for, isn't it?'

'Yes, of course. One old worn-out American bomber, flown by – forgive me, my friend – by one old English pilot and a worn-out actor is going to drop a load of bricks on some aged jet fighters. Yes, that sounds very much likea Repúblicarevolution to me. Now, I believe it.'

His voice had a bitter edge on it.

I shrugged.'Dicho y hecho.'And pressed the energise switch. The lights dimmed; gradually a faint whine started in the port engine as the flywheel built up energy. When the whine had reached a steady note I flicked the switch across to 'Mesh'.

The propeller grunted, groaned, turned, staggered, coughed, spun. I stabbed the prime button and caught it with the throttle. Blue flames crackled outside the window; in the noise, I motioned Luiz to put on his headset. Now for the starboard engine.

It caught – but as I pushed up the throttle, the whole plane shuddered to a long grinding screech.

I jerked the switch back tooff, but the grind went on.

'What is it?' Luiz asked – a crackling voice in my headphones.

'Starter motor's jammed in mesh. Won't come declutched.'

I whanged the pitch to full revs to try and shake it out; all it did was double the racket.

'Shouldn't we start again?' Luiz called.

'That starter'll never start anything again. Just hope it chews itself to pieces soon.'

We waited. Then there was a tearingthump and just the engine noise. Something had bust – the flywheel probably. Spinning at a ratio of 100 to 1 with the engine itself, my burst of revs had probably thrown it to 200,000 rpm. Goodbye flywheel. I hope you didn't take anything with you when you went.

But the engines both ran up and settled down all right. After a few minutes testing the hydraulics and magnetos, I swung around on to the runway, pointed her just left of the distant spark of light that was the hurricane lamp, and put down full flap. Widi them and a bit of luck, I was going to make one of the shortest take-offs the old lady had ever lived through.

I made sure Luiz's hand was on the undercarriage lever andnot on the flaps, shoved the throttles up to full power against the brakes, paused, then flipped off the brakes. And we ran.

But not as fast as at Barranquilla. We were heavier now, 2,000 pounds of bricks and a lot of fuel. On the windless runway we picked up speed slowly… slowly… slowly…

At 80 I tried a little back pressure: the nosewheel lifted sluggishly. I waited, the spark of light rushing closer, getting brighter, then hauled full back on the control column.

And yelled: 'Gear up.'

A sudden roar as the undercart doors started to open, a momentary heaviness as the wheel legs buckled before she was clear of the ground, and then we were flying – just. The light flicked away below, the tops of the trees rushed past, and we were staggering flatly towards the coast, picking up speed. And finally over the sea, retracting the flaps and pulling gently into the laden climb to our cruising height.

I throttled back carefully. After a time Luiz said: 'That was – quite exciting. I understand why you preferred to take off at night.'

'Yes.' Iwas busy checking everything within reach to make sure its nervous system hadn't been strained by the take-off. I was still worried by the starter motor crack-up; you don't usually bust a large piece of equipment violently without it leaving scars, but nothing was showing up on the starboard engine instruments. And itwas only a starter motor…

I climbed on a heading of 098, both magnetic and true: in this area the magnetic variation was too small to bother with. Twenty minutes after take-off we passed through 8,000 feet. I took her up another 200, levelled out until I had 180 mph on the clock, then throttled back to lean cruising power and let her slide gently downhill to 8,000 exactly. Known as 'putting her on the step'; you get a little more airspeed for the same fuel, or the same speed for less fuel. Theoretically, you can't do either – but with a good theoretical knowledge of aerodynamics you can prove a bumble bee is too heavy to fly.

When I flattened out again at 8,000, the airspeed had crept up to 185 – and it stayed there. I smiled, a little smugly, and started to sing.

I didn't want to join the Air Force;

I don't want to go to war.

I'd rather hang around

Piccadilly Underground

Living on the earnings of a high-born lady…

Luiz was looking at me curiously. 'Battle hymn of the RAF,' I explained. 'Ah.' He reached into a pocket. 'You are sure you would not prefer a cigarette?'

We sat almost shoulder-to-shoulder in the cramped cockpit, cold in the high night air rushing past, dim in the faint glow of the instruments. And bracketed by the dry roar of the engines, die splatter of white flame from the exhaust stubs.

An hour after take-off I was squinting through the exhaust flames on my side, trying to make out PointeàGravois in Haiti, which should be our first landfall. It wasn't there, but the northern horizon was a rampart of clouds, so probably Haiti was up there somewhere. At diis height we were probably getting a dying breath of north wind from sister Clara.

I decided to assume we were on time but off course to starboard. I altered the heading to due east – largely because it was easy to steer. Navigation in the Caribbean is never critical – not with islands popping up every hour to give youa definitefix.

What worried me more was that the starboard engine had missed a couple of beats in the last ten minutes. In itself nothing important, except that I had my mind on that engine after its starter troubles. And aeroplanes usually play fair with you: they wheeze and cough and tremble before they die – if you're awake enough to notice the signs.

Yet there weren't any other signs: the rpm held steady, oil pressures and temperatures were normal. I laid a hand on the metal of the engine control pedestal. It trembled slightly, but it always had. Just the normal palsies of old age. So… So?

Luiz said: 'And still nothing.' He had the radio in his lap and was twiddling.

'It's only just past three in the morning.'

'I hope you are right.' He turned it off.

The starboard engine missed another beat.

He asked: 'Where do you want me for the attack itself?'

'Better be down in the nose. You've got a good view, there; you can tell me anything you see.'

'My friend, you do not sound very impressed with my… usefulness.'

'You know exactly damn well why I'm not.'

The engine missed again – bad enough for him to notice, this time. He turned away, staring out at the exhaustfiâmes.

I had caught a flicker – no more – on the rpm dial, a shudder on the oil pressure. But now both were normal again. Just in the general way a doctor hands out a pill, I pushed the starboard mixture to full rich. It would cool things, if there was a hot spot the temperature gauges didn't show. It might bum off any carbon on the plugs. But mostly it would show the engine that I, the doctor, cared.

Still with his head screwed round, staring out of the window, Luiz asked: 'Do you think we will have to abort the mission?'