Vince May - Presumed Dead

Hubbard smiled grimly as they sped along the A27, then suddenly the police helicopter was transmitting again. ‘All units, all units, the target vehicle has turned left, left into Ranscombe Lane, half a mile west of the village.’

‘What the hell’s he up to?’ Hubbard barked. ‘Ask them where that lane leads.’

‘Echo Xray,’ Butcher transmitted, ‘can you see where the lane leads?’

‘Looks like it passes north of the farm then carries on towards Ringmer,’ the observer replied. Then, before Hubbard could issue any new instructions the observer shouted, ‘Target vehicle’s stopped, one occupant’s bailed out and running across what looks like an airstrip towards a farm building.’

Hubbard grabbed the microphone from Butcher and yelled, ‘All units, all units, converge on the building at the end of the airstrip, he’s going to try and fly out! Echo Xray, block that runway!’

As soon as Ross jumped out of the car and started running, he heard the helicopter overhead. ‘Damn!’ he shouted aloud as he climbed the high chain link fence that bordered his property, then headed towards the barn at a run. Within a minute he reached the building and swung both of the huge doors back, just as three police cars came into view, bumping along the track from the house, lights flashing and sirens blaring.

Quickly, he dashed into the barn, up the steps of the Golden Eagle, then slamming the doors shut behind him, leapt into the cockpit. Within seconds, the engines were running and he rammed the throttles forward, driving the sleek aircraft out of the barn towards the start of the runway, just as the police cars arrived.

Rapidly gaining speed with the cars in close pursuit, he swung the aircraft around as he reached the runway threshold and applied full power. As he looked forward, he saw with horror that the police helicopter was preparing to land about half way down the runway, but by this time he’d thrown all caution to the wind and headed straight for it. ‘You’d better get that bloody thing out of my way,’ he growled, ‘because I’m not going to stop.’

The lightly loaded Golden Eagle accelerated rapidly, and before it had covered a quarter of the runway it was up to flying speed. Pulling back hard on the yoke, Ross hauled the aircraft into the air with the stall-warning horn howling in protest.

At the same time, the pilot of the police helicopter lost his nerve and applied full power to lift off out of the way of the charging Golden Eagle. He managed to get the machine about ten feet off the ground and was desperately trying to clear the runway when the left wheel of the Golden Eagle smashed through his tail rotor, skewing the helicopter around and sending it spinning out of control.

The impact shredded the Golden Eagle’s tire and bent the undercarriage leg, but didn’t impede the powerful aircraft’s progress into the sky. Ross had thought he was going to clear the helicopter, but when it had started to rise up in front of him he’d known a collision was unavoidable. When it came, there was a loud bang from below the port wing, but no loss of control. Now, as he banked steeply to the left looking out over his shoulder, he scanned the field below to see what had happened to the other machine.

As he watched, the dark blue helicopter ballooned about fifty feet up into the air under full power, then careered drunkenly, spinning out of control across the airstrip boundary before crashing through the roof of the farmhouse.

The explosion was immense as the ruptured fuel tanks sprayed aviation fuel all over the red hot turbines, engulfing the farmhouse in flames and sending a greasy black mushroom cloud high into the air. Ross closed his eyes for a moment then completed his turn and climbed out towards the sea, retracting the damaged undercarriage as he went.

Hubbard and Butcher turned onto the track leading to the farm just as the farmhouse erupted in flames. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Hubbard shouted, ‘What the hell happened?’

‘Looks like the chopper’s gone down!’ Butcher replied, staring incredulously at the burning building. ‘Those poor bastards don’t stand a chance!’

‘Three men!’ Hubbard screamed, ‘three good men! I’m going to get that stuck-up bastard if it’s the last thing I do! Get the registration before he gets out of sight!’ Butcher noted the aircraft’s registration while Hubbard accelerated up the track towards the airstrip, where the other officers were out of their cars, some staring towards the burning farmhouse, others watching the Golden Eagle as it disappeared towards the coast.

Hubbard skidded to a halt outside the hangar, jumped out of the car and screamed, ‘Don’t just stand there, get down to the house and see what you can do!’ As the officers piled into their cars, Hubbard rushed into the hangar, jumped up onto the wing of a Piper Warrior and wrenched the door open.

‘You’re not going after him in that, are you?’ Butcher asked with dismay as he followed his boss.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Hubbard snapped, ‘I can’t fly, but I’ve been in these things before and I know how to use the radio!’ Pulling a headset on, he flicked the master switches up then turned the knob on the radio set. Almost immediately, he heard the voice of a controller speaking to an aircraft. As soon as the exchange had finished, he pressed the transmit button on the yoke and said, ‘This is the police calling air traffic control, do you read?’

‘Station calling London Information, please say your call sign,’ the London air traffic controller snapped.

‘London Information,’ Hubbard replied coolly, ‘I have no call sign, I am a police officer on the ground. We are in pursuit of a dangerous criminal who has just escaped in a twin engine aircraft, registration Golf-Sierra-India-Romeo-Romeo. I want you to track his movements, he can’t be allowed to get away.’

‘Roger police unit, the aircraft is still on this frequency and has just been given clearance to route across the Channel to Le Havre and free-call the Lille controller. Present position is ten miles south of Brighton at five thousand feet. Will pass your request for tracking on to Lille.’

Ross engaged the autopilot, and was just getting comfortable in the cockpit thinking he’d got clean away when he heard Hubbard talking to the controller. He’d planned to route over to Le Havre, then travel on towards Chamonix at low level in uncontrolled airspace, losing himself among the hundreds of other Sunday afternoon flyers over France. He hadn’t expected Hubbard to be so quick off the mark alerting the air traffic control authorities. Yet again, he thought, that pushy, arrogant copper’s ruined my plans. Then he heard Hubbard’s voice again, addressing him directly.

‘Webley, I know you can hear me, now listen. You might as well turn around and give yourself up. You are directly responsible for the death of three police officers. You will be tracked relentlessly by the authorities wherever you go. When you eventually land, there will be police waiting to meet you. You don’t stand a chance of getting away.’

Ross didn’t answer. Listening to Hubbard’s stern, authoritative voice, he knew that what he was saying was true. He also knew that he would never give himself up, not to rot for the rest of his life in some jail.

Reaching out, he switched the radio off.

Back on the ground, Hubbard repeated his appeal over the radio, but was then asked by the controller to clear the frequency and to call the duty supervisor at the Gatwick control center by telephone. After writing the number down, Hubbard switched the radio and electrics in the Warrior off and climbed down from the wing.

‘Bastard didn’t respond,’ he said angrily to Butcher, who had only been able to hear one side of the exchange on the radio. ‘I’ve got to call the controller at Gatwick on the phone now.’