Presumed Dead, page 26
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.
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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.’
Walking out of the barn, Hubbard looked over towards the farmhouse where he could see two fire engines starting to play water onto the roof, which was still burning fiercely. ‘There goes the Crawford case,’ he said shaking his head. ‘Forensics were due to go back in tomorrow and go over the entire house with a fine-tooth comb. If there was any other evidence in there, it’s gone now.’
‘But he’s proved his guilt by making a run for it,’ Butcher reasoned.
‘You know that, and I know that, but try making it stand up in court,’ Hubbard said dejectedly, as he walked towards the car punching numbers into his cell phone.
Hubbard’s call to the supervising controller at Gatwick was answered quickly. Once he’d introduced himself, he asked, ‘Any more news on Webley’s aircraft?’
‘He’s turned onto a heading of one-three-six degrees and climbed to twelve thousand feet. Still not responding to repeated radio calls. In another few minutes he’ll be out of English airspace.’
Hubbard swore under his breath. ‘If he sticks to his new course, where will it take him?’
‘Hold on, I’ll just check on the chart,’ the controller replied. Coming back half a minute later, he said ‘A course of one-three-six from his present position will take him over the northern suburbs of Paris then on down towards Lake Geneva. Nothing much to get in his way at twelve thousand feet until he gets to the Alps.’
An alarm bell rang in Hubbard’s mind. ‘I think I know where he’s going!’ he said excitedly. ‘What can we do to stop him?’
‘In about another three minutes, absolutely nothing. He’ll be in French airspace.’
‘Damn!’ Hubbard exploded, ‘Who can I speak to over there, do you know?’
‘Best person would be my opposite number at Orly. I don’t know the name, but I can give you a number if you like.’
Hubbard noted the number, thanked the controller, then rang off. While he’d been talking, a battered Landrover had made its way up the track and parked nearby. Hubbard and Butcher walked over to it as an old man climbed out of the cab. ‘Who are you?’ Hubbard asked, flashing his warrant card.
‘I’m Harry Perkins,’ the old man replied, ‘I look after the aircraft here. I saw all the commotion from the village and thought Sir Ross had had an accident.’
‘It wasn’t Webley,’ Hubbard said, ‘it was a police helicopter. Now you’re here though, maybe you can help. The big twin that’s normally kept here, what type is it?’
‘She’s a Cessna 421B, known as a Golden Eagle,’ Perkins replied.
‘How fast can it go?
‘Depends on how high you fly her.’
‘Say, twelve thousand feet. How fast will it go at that height?’
Perkins thought for a moment then said, ‘I’d say between two-thirty and two-fifty, depending on the power setting.’
‘Miles an hour?’ Hubbard asked, making notes.
‘Yes.’
‘Now, what about distance,’ Hubbard asked, ‘how far can it go.’
‘On full tanks, about fifteen-hundred miles,’ Perkins replied.
‘And were the tanks full?’
‘Yes, I filled them myself when Sir Ross came back on Thursday. He hasn’t used her since.’
‘Thank you,’ Hubbard said, closing his notebook. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ As they walked back to the car, he said to Butcher, ‘Come on, let’s get over to the local nick in Lewes. We need a base to work from.’
Twenty minutes later they were installed in the incident room at Lewes Police Station, which had been set up to cover the Crawford shooting. Hubbard put a call through to the Paris Air Traffic Control Center, and after explaining who he was and what he wanted, found that his information was very welcome. The supervising controller told him they had been going crazy trying to contact the unidentified aircraft that had entered their airspace without clearance at 15:23 local time.
‘Can you confirm his heading is still one-three-six?’ Hubbard asked.
‘That’s affirmative,’ the supervisor replied in heavily accented but technically correct English. ‘His altitude and heading have not varied at all since he entered our airspace.’
‘What do you intend to do?’ Hubbard asked.
‘If we get no response in the next few minutes, I will request the Air Force send a fighter to escort him down.’
‘That would be perfect,’ Hubbard said with satisfaction. ‘Please remember, he is a wanted criminal. Will you be able to have the police detain him when he lands?’
‘Of course Monsieur, he has already broken several laws, he will be arrested anyway. If you give me your number I will call you back as soon as I know where he will be landing.’
Hubbard gave him the incident room number, thanked him, then rang off. ‘All we can do now is wait,’ he said as he replaced the receiver. ‘Let’s see if we can get some coffee.’
Half an hour later the telephone rang. Hubbard snatched it up and heard the distinctive accent of the French supervisor. ‘I’m afraid we have a problem,’ the Frenchman said.
‘What sort of problem?’ Hubbard asked anxiously.
‘The Air Force sent two Mirage jets to intercept the Cessna, but they could not get the pilot to respond to their signals. One of them flew very close and could see the pilot slumped forward in his seatbelt. He appeared to be unconscious.’
Hubbard’s mind raced as he tried to digest the information he was being given. Heart attack, he wondered, suicide? The supervisor was speaking again, ‘The Air Force has taken over responsibility for this now. They are projecting the track of the aircraft forward. If it looks like it will crash in a populated area, they will shoot it down.’
The words snapped Hubbard back to attention. ‘They can’t do that!’ he protested.
‘I’m afraid they can, and they will, if they need to,’ the Frenchman assured him. ‘Now, they have asked me to get some more information. Do you know how much fuel the Cessna has on board?’
‘It was full when it took off,’ Hubbard replied, ‘that should give it a range of over a thousand miles.’
‘Good, at least it should clear French airspace. If it keeps going as it is, it should crash into the Mediterranean.’
‘Is it high enough to clear the Alps?’ Hubbard asked.
‘Standby, I have just been handed a message from the Air Force.’ Hubbard waited a few seconds then heard the supervisor say, ‘You are right, they predict that the aircraft will crash into the mountains just south of the town of Chamonix in the French Alps.’
At the mention of the name Chamonix, Hubbard knew he was right. ‘What time do they estimate the crash will occur?’ he asked.
‘Let’s see,’ the supervisor murmured, ‘16:57 local time, just under one hour from now.’
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Down in Chamonix, Batard was sitting at his desk, speaking to a senior French Air Force commander on the telephone. ‘We’ve got a rogue aircraft heading your way at an altitude of 3,700 meters,’ the commander was saying calmly, ‘the pilot is unconscious, probably dead.’
Batard’s blood ran cold as the commander carried on. ‘No need to worry, we’ve projected its track forward and calculated the exact point of impact to be in an unpopulated area to the south of you.’
‘Where exactly?’ Batard managed to ask.
‘Let me have a look… ah, here it is. Four kilometers south of Chamonix on the north face of a 3,842 meter peak named L’Aiguille du Midi,’ the commander said nonchalantly. ‘The civil aviation boys will get a team down there tomorrow to pick up the pieces.’
Batard felt a cold sweat break out on his forehead. ‘Commander,’ he said urgently, ‘you’ve got to stop that aircraft before it gets here. There’s a huge cable-car station on the summit of L’Aiguille du Midi which at this time of day is packed with hundreds of visitors!’
‘You’ve got nearly an hour,’ the commander replied coolly, ‘just evacuate it if you’re worried.’
‘If the pilot is already dead, can’t you shoot the aircraft down?’ Batard asked hopefully.
‘Not unless it’s absolutely necessary,’ the commander said, ‘it would cause a hell of a stink, French fighters shooting down a British registered aircraft. Now look, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of time to get those people down from there. The sooner you get on with it, the better.’
‘All right,’ Batard said reluctantly, ‘but if there are still people up there at 16:45, I’m going to insist you shoot it down.’
‘Fair enough,’ the commander conceded, ‘I’ll keep the escorts in place and wait for your call.’
Batard said goodbye, slammed his fingers down on the cradle to clear the line, then dialed the number for the cable-car station at the foot of L’Aiguille du Midi in Chamonix.
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Back up in Lewes, Hubbard was pacing the incident room. ‘I reckon it’s a trick,’ he was saying to Butcher.
‘You think he’s faking it?’
‘Yes. I reckon as soon as he saw those fighters he pretended to be unconscious so they couldn’t force him down. I’ll bet you as soon as he gets into the mountains he’ll dive off up a valley somewhere he can’t be followed and land.’
‘But why would he do that?’ Butcher asked. ‘He knows he’d be caught sooner or later.’
‘Maybe so, but I think he’s got unfinished business with his wife. I’m convinced he’s a killer, and now he knows we’re on to him, he’s got nothing to lose. Didn’t you see the look on his face when we told him she was still alive? I think he’s completely lost it, and he’s got nothing on his mind now but finishing her off before we get him.’
‘Hadn’t we better warn her?’ Butcher asked.
‘Better than that, we’ll warn the local police. They can protect her, and if Webley shows up they can nick him.’ With that, Hubbard pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and scrolled through his recent calls. ‘Here it is,’ he said, pushing the button to redial Batard’s number.
Batard had just finished speaking with the director of the STMB, the company that runs the Aiguille du Midi cable cars. He’d managed to convey the urgency of the situation and the director had promised an immediate evacuation. When his telephone rang again, he snatched it from its cradle.
‘Batard,’ he barked.
‘Chief Inspector Hubbard here,’ Hubbard said.
‘I am sorry Monsieur, I can not talk now, I am dealing with an emergency.’
‘The aircraft that is heading your way?’ Hubbard asked.
‘How did you know?’
‘That aircraft belongs to Sir Ross Webley, I believe he is on his way to harm his wife.’
Batard was flabbergasted. ‘I knew it was a British aircraft, but I had no idea it was him!’ he said. ‘I was told the pilot was dead!’
‘I don’t believe that,’ Hubbard replied urgently. ‘I think he’s faking, and at the last minute, he’ll land somewhere near Chamonix and go after his wife.’
Batard thought of Alice being harmed again by her husband and his blood boiled. ‘Do not worry Monsieur, if he comes anywhere near Madame Webley, I will shoot him personally.’
‘No need for that, Batard,’ Hubbard said, surprised by his vehemence, ‘just arrest him if you wouldn’t mind. He’s got a number of charges to answer here including manslaughter, murder and attempted murder.’
‘It will be done, you can rely on me,’ Batard assured him. ‘Now I must get on. Goodbye Monsieur.’ Batard hung up then grabbed his cap and headed out of the door.
.
Up in the cable car station on the summit of L’Aiguille du Midi, all hell had broken loose. The duty manager had made an announcement over the public address system in three languages asking everyone to make their way calmly to the disembarkation point for emergency evacuation. Mention of the word emergency had sparked panic. Women screamed, children cried and there was a crush of bodies as hundreds of people desperately tried to squeeze down the narrow staircase that led to the departure station.
As the next empty cable-car edged into the station, the crowd surged forward, piling into the gondola until it was impossible to slide the doors closed. Using a loud hailer and physically manhandling people out of the way, the station staff managed to drive the crowd back behind a barrier so that the doors could be closed and the cable-car could depart.
While they were waiting for the next gondola to arrive, the station manager reassured everyone that there was no need for panic, and that if everyone remained calm, they would all get down safely. That worked until the next car arrived…
