Unlawfully At Large, page 12
part #2 of DCI Tyler Series
The security officer nodded. “It is,” he confirmed, “but if they waited outside and jumped someone who was about to swipe themselves in, there would be no way of stopping them from inside.”
Dillon paled. If the fugitives gained access to the helicopter facility, they might force the pilot to airlift them from the building.
Dillon turned to Nick Bartholomew. “Do you know how to get up there?”
“Well yeah, of course, but…”
“No buts. Take us up there, right now,” Dillon ordered, looking across to Pat Connors for support.
He was rewarded with a firm nod of agreement “I’ll have to come with you, Tony, to provide armed support,” Connors said. He spoke into his lapel microphone, informing the other members of his team (they worked on an independent radio channel) what was happening, then he signalled for another shot who was standing up by the hospital entrance to come over and join them.
“I’ll stay here and hold the fort,” Speed said, “but let me know the moment you have an update.”
“I will do,” Dillon promised.
They were joined by an intimidating looking man in sunglasses who carried a carbine across his chest. “Tony, this is Eric, one of the best shots on the team,” Connors said, making the introductions.
“The best shot,” Eric, a shaven-headed man of about forty, corrected, and Dillon could imagine hawkish eyes narrowing behind his wraparound sunglasses. He nodded casually at Dillon and Bartholomew in turn and then checked that his magazine was seated properly.
“We need to get up to the HEMS team on the seventeenth-floor,” Connors explained to the newcomer. “There’s a possibility that our suspects are trying to break into their base.”
Eric merely raised an eyebrow. He was clearly not an overly talkative chap, Dillon realised.
The four men: Dillon, Connors, Eric and Nick Bartholomew, started up the stairs towards the hospital entrance; their mission to find and secure the helipad on the hospital rooftop.
◆◆◆
Peter Myers left his helicopter, having ensured that it was ready to go at a moment’s notice. You never knew when the warning claxon was going to sound or a call was going to come in requiring immediate action. Mike Cummings walked beside him.
“Right, I’m going down into the mess room for a cup of rosy and some nose-bag,” Cummings declared with a huge grin. He was a rotund man who enjoyed his job immensely. “You coming?” he enquired casually.
Myers smiled back and then blew into his hands to stave off the cold. “You bet. I could murder a hot drink right now.” As they approached the entrance to the muster room, it suddenly burst open in front of them.
Two men, one of them dressed in operating room attire, emerged. They looked ruffled, out of breath and in a big hurry. The doctor – at least he looked like a doctor – was supporting the other man, who appeared to be in considerable pain.
“What the hell?” Cummings mouthed, stopping in his tracks. Who did these people think they were? Didn’t they know that it was a secure area, for authorised persons only?
A third person appeared behind them, this one a dishevelled looking female wearing the uniform of a nurse. She was sweating profusely and her hair was as lank as it would have been had it just been put through a mangle. There was a large scar running down one side of an otherwise attractive face.
Cummings raised his hands to stop them. “Excuse me folks, but you can’t come out here. It’s off-limits to anyone who doesn’t have the proper authority,” he explained, wondering how they had bypassed security.
Winston lunged forward, grabbing hold of the supervisor’s overalls. “Here’s my authority, motherfucker!” He rammed the muzzle of the pistol under Cummings's’ chin, forcing his head back.
Cummings instinctively recoiled. Whimpering in fear, he stared up into the hate-filled, watering eyes of the hulking brute. “Please!” he begged, raising both hands submissively, “don’t hurt me.”
“Shut up,” Winston growled, now jabbing the gun into the side of his face and grinding it into his flesh.
A cry of pain escaped Cummings quivering lips.
Ignoring him, Winston turned to Peter Myers. “You – can you fly that thing up there?” He nodded at the helicopter sitting majestically on its pad.
“Well, I…” Myers stalled, trying to buy them some time. Surely someone in the control room would see what was going on and call the police?
“Don’t fuck with me, man!” Winston screamed. He rammed the gun deeper into Cummings’ cheek to emphasise the point, eliciting another cry of anguish.
“Pete, Please!” Cummings implored, knowing that his life hung in the balance.
Myers raised his hands in defeat. He was wearing a HEMS jumpsuit with four stripes on his sleeve; he could hardly pretend to be anything other than a pilot. “Okay, okay, you win. Yes, I can fly it.”
Winston grunted. “And do you need him to help you?” he asked.
“No.”
Winston allowed himself a cruel smile. “Good.” He released his grip on Cummings, who staggered back, almost fainting with relief.
As the ground crew supervisor leaned towards Myers for support, Winston lashed out, pistol-whipping him across the side of the face. With a dull thud, Cummings dropped flat on the floor, his hands flailing uselessly as he fell. Myers could only stare on in disbelief. There had been no warning. There had been no need.
“You bastard,” Myers said through gritted teeth, his fists clenching and unclenching helplessly by his side.
“Let’s move it, man,” Winston gestured up the ramp with the handgun, pointing it towards the helicopter.
Leaning into the wind, the party of four made their way over to the aircraft. Garston and Angela got in first, moving as far over as they could. Winston gestured for Myers to board next. As the pilot opened the cockpit door, Winston placed a hand on his arm, pulling him near.
“And remember, no funny business,” he warned.
Myers grunted unhappily. He would do as he was told. He wasn’t paid to be a hero.
When they were all aboard, Myers began the pre-flight safety checks, working his way methodically through the list as every good pilot should. He was praying that the police would arrive and stop the flight before it became airborne.
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 thing flying 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 his head protectively. He appeared to be locked on a collision course with the helicopter’s tail.
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.”
