The Judas Factor
Political Thriller with social and romantic overtones.
By
Peter G Bailey
Smashwords Edition
Published by:
PGPublishing at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 By Peter G Bailey ©
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The moral right of Peter G Bailey has been asserted
First published in Great Britain by PG Publishing
All characters in this book are fictitious and bear no relationship to any person, alive or dead, known to the author.
A catalogue record for all published eBooks is held in the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-9569572-6-9
Dedicated to JOY - Her loveliness I never knew until she smiled on me.
One Sentence Synopsis:-
Political string pullers triumph over man with a mission.
Two paragraph synopsis:-
Simon Denchfield’s interest in radical politics is taken over by sinister forces that propel him into leading a successful coup against the government. Once in power his backers purge their enemies and withdraw their support. Arrested, he is condemned as a traitor and only escape's death by the intercession of an unlikely saviour.
Two Paragraph synopsis:-
A cross country training flight in a light aircraft that ends in an emergency landing in a remote Scottish forest clearing dramatically changes the lives of the two pilots. What they see begins a train of sinister events that propels Simon Denchfield into leading an armed coup against the Tory Government of Great Britain.
After toppling the government as a proxy for the real leader, Denchfield finds he enjoys the trappings of power and soon clashes with his backers. Tricked while out of the country, he is arrested and charged with treason but is saved by the institution he sets out to destroy.
Synopsis:
After from an emergency light aircraft landing in a remote Scottish forest, Simon Denchfield and Ellen Philips, his student pilot, find themselves in a situation that seems normal from the outside, but is far from that.
Returning to their airfield near Bristol the following day the pair suspect they have touched something politically sinister, especially when on another flight over a forested area on the Mendips Hill, Denchfield spots activities not associated with the arboreal industry. Investigating further he discovers that Yandall-Yates, the chairman of the Forestry Commission, is none other than a retired army general who once advocated the formation of a private army to offset growing civilian unrest inspired by union and communist inspired plans to take over the British government by extra-political activities.
Curiosity is further aroused when Denchfield and Ellen spend the weekend at Castle Oldfield where they meet Yandall-Yates and enter political discussions leading to an invitation for Denchfield to meet Roy Harkins, the British socialist President of the European Commission, in Brussels.
Harkins, nearing the end of his presidency, has ambitions to return to British politics, but not to his old socialist party now heavily infiltrated by communist activists. He leans towards social democracy, a political doctrine Denchfield also supports. Following the meeting Denchfield gives up his flying job to help Harkins form the new National Democratic Party by acting as its national figurehead ready to move over when Harkins vacates his European position.
While Denchfield becomes party chairman and strives to set up a fully functional NDP, Yandall-Yates makes other plans.
Reluctantly Denchfield agrees to lead a successful armed take-over of the government on the understanding that Roy Harkins is named leader and take full responsibility for the next stage.
That does not happen.
Supposedly crippled with a broken leg Harkins orders Denchfield takes on the role until he is fit. As party chairman Denchfield decides he likes the task and begins moving the party in opposition to Harkins’ stated wishes.
Never popular amongst the new party’s senior members because of his imposed status; Denchfield nevertheless decides he must risk attending a G7 meeting in New York and speak at the United Nations. He does both, but on the return flight he is arrested and returned to England as a prisoner where the NDP have been replaced by the ousted government with the approval of Roy Harkins and Yandall-Yates.
Sent to trial as a traitor Denchfield is condemned to death while many of his supporters are rewarded with state honours and accept jobs under the new administration.
Imprisoned in the Tower of London, Denchfield is rescued and flown abroad.
Contents:
Chapter - One The Land Away.
Chapter - Two Fame’s Folly.
Chapter - Three After the Ball.
Chapter – Four Castle Oldfield.
Chapter - Five The Call to Duty.
Chapter - Six The Plot Thickens.
Chapter - Seven Option Five.
Chapter - Eight Taking a Grip.
Chapter - Nine The Dream Achieved.
Chapter - Ten Political Realities.
Chapter - Eleven The Endgame.
Chapter – Twelve Death of an Angel.
Chapter- Thirteen The Establishment Strikes Back.
Chapter – Fourteen The Bite.
The Judas Factor
Chapter One
The Land-Away.
Chief Flying Instructor Simon Denchfield looked up from his desk and inwardly groaned as Clifford Webb, president of the Lulsgate Flying Club, entered his office on a visit that was both unwelcome and badly timed.
‘Are you flying this morning?’ Webb asked, mentally noting that Denchfield wore grey flying overalls and his white helmet lay on a nearby cabinet as he dropped a thick portfolio of dog-eared papers on the desk and took one of two chairs provided for the convenience of visitors without waiting for an invitation.
Denchfield put his pen down and slid the paper he was reading back into the in-tray it came from: it could wait. The president obviously had something important on his mind. Important to him, if not the chief flying instructor.
‘Yes, I’m taking a student on a land-away at eleven o’clock,’ he responded coolly. Webb, a nice enough fellow, had unforgivable shortcomings, like wanting to talk at inconvenient times, and smoking.
‘Anywhere interesting?’ Webb persisted. Seated comfortably he drew a battle-scarred rosewood pipe from his pocket and methodically set about filling the bowl from a pigskin tobacco pouch extracted from another.
Denchfield hid a grimace of distaste. As a confirmed non-smoker he preferred Webb not to foist his odiferous indulgence on him when desk bound in his office. It made the air unbreathable for hours after the president left, but he was the boss and Denchfield was a courteous man.
‘Don’t know yet. I’m leaving the arrangements to her, but I’ll take a casual interest in case I need to pack a tooth brush,’ Denchfield chuckled dryly. Then to change the subject and shorten the time he had to endue the smoke and unwanted conversation, he asked amiably: ‘What are you doing in the club anyway? It’s Monday morning.’
Before answering Webb glanced around the large functionally furnished office as if assuring himself that the two men could speak privately.
‘Tony off somewhere?’ he asked noting that all the other desks in the office were bereft of their usual occupants. He leaned forward to replace the matches and pouch in his coat pocket. This was an unbreakable habit. In exactly one minute, he would fumble for them again to repeat the lighting ritual. If he failed to notice his idiosyncratic behaviour everyone around him unconsciously ticked the seconds off on their mental clock.
‘Yes. He’s in Antwerp and he’s taken Tracey with him. She doesn’t get around much,’ Denchfield explained as he leaned back in his chair to get as far from the erupting pipe as he thought polite. He was ready to listen and make polite conversation, but wished for a rapid release from the nasal affliction.
‘Lucky him,’ Webb commented dryly. He knew Tracey was a very presentable and bedworthy companion to take on a weekend trip to the Sin City of Europe, but ever the gentleman kept the comment to himself as he flipped open the portfolio. ‘I had an appointment in Weston,’ he went on in response to Denchfield’s earlier enquiry. ‘But it was cancelled and as I was passing I dropped in to see if you could spare me a second or two.’
‘Must be an important client to prise you out of the office on a Monday morning,’ Denchfield observed pleasantly. Webb, the senior partner in a Bristol Law firm, had over sixty partners and any one of them could have dealt with the distant client unless their importance to the practice dictated a very senior presence, and none was more senior than the pungently smouldering Webb.
‘One of the privileges of age and seniority is that you only see people you want to,’ Webb confided cynically. ‘But selectivity should not be abused by allowing it to spread too far down the command chain.’
He pulled the papers from the desk on to his lap and removed a letter from amongst them. He needed reading glasses for closely typed script but was too vain to wear them in the presence of the club’s CFI who he knew had excellent eyesight. He suspected his own visual shortcomings might tell against him when his private pilot’s licence came up for renewal. He was reaching an age when such things worried him, as did the need to take a lift in preference to climbing stairs.
‘I want to talk to you about our old friend,’ Webb began without bothering to refer to the letter in his hand.
‘Not Hothead Hardman?’ Denchfield groaned in mock disgust at being disturbed from his administrative work to discuss a subject he would rather not handle without donning protective clothing and long tongs. He leaned forward to pick up a pencil to disguise a rush of irritation. Rectal cancer would be a more agreeable subject to discus.
‘Right!’ Webb agreed with a note of measured resignation in his precise voice. ‘Your tame shop steward is collecting quite a file.’ He tapped the papers on his lap. ‘I suppose one day he’ll complain about secret documents being raised on diligent representatives of the working classes.’
‘Tame!’ Denchfield grunted disgustedly. ‘He ought to be behind bars, masked and heavily sedated.’ Hardman did not figure anywhere on his list favourite people.
Webb smiled bleakly. It was not in his professional nature to assign retribution before the due process of the law had taken its course, but he often felt a good case could be made for resurrecting something painful for Hardman; something like a long drop at the end of a short rope.
‘It seems he’s touting for union members at Filton, Rolls Royce, St Athans and Rhoose Airport, to name but a few local aircraft operating establishments.’
‘Without their prior approval, I hope?’ Denchfield interjected optimistically. ‘Isn’t that a capital offence in union circles?’
‘Disapproval is the thread running through all the correspondence I have on that subject,’ Webb agreed bleakly. ‘Most of it very thinly disguised abuse casting doubts on his parentage.’
‘Go on!’ Denchfield urged unenthusiastically. He did not want to hear more but felt compelled to know the worst. He fidgeted theatrically in one of his desk drawers. ‘Don’t mind me,’ he apologised when Webb looked at him curiously. ‘I’m looking for a gun to shoot myself. I can’t take much more of that man without taking the coward’s way out.’
Webb smiled weakly and ignored the flippancy.
‘It seems that certain union bodies have registered complaints with other union bodies who listen to these things and in the roundabout way these things take, it’s been drawn to the attention of his employer, namely us, in the hope that we might redirect his recruitment enthusiasm into more profitable channels ie., out of their business and into ours.’
Webb inspected the bowl of his pipe to see if more ignition was needed. He decided not.
‘Didn’t we have trouble with him interfering at Westlands a while back?’ Denchfield asked.
‘We did, and that trouble’s not yet over,’ Webb responded grimly. ‘Do you know what his intentions are, apart from being a bloody nuisance to the rest of humanity?’
Unable to offer a suitable explanation Denchfield shrugged. ‘I heard he’s trying to set up a new union as a vehicle for entry into the Trades Union Congress and to use it as a power base for his own political ends,’ he suggested in lieu of a better response.
‘That’s interesting,’ Webb mused between slow, noisy sucks at his pipe. ‘Why doesn’t he follow the same path other career union members use, start from within an existing recognised union and climb their promotion ladder to life president?’
‘Exactly the question I posed to myself,’ Denchfield interjected sourly. ‘And the simple answer is, Hardman is a man with a mission and is on a dedicated crusade. He’s in a hurry to relieve the toiling masses of their capitalist bonds. In his opinion the existing union hierarchies have sold their working class credentials to the plutocrats. Union leaders have shed their hair shirts are no longer radical enough, nor are they dedicated to achieving worker control of the economy within the time scale he’s set himself, and that’s the day before yesterday.’
‘I see,’ Webb muttered with a defeated sigh. ‘Another man who knows what’s best for humanity and doesn’t mind the damage he inflicts proving it. God save us from well-intentioned men out of step with the world.’ He searched in his coat pocket for his matches. The pipe did need ignition, or at least the threat of it.
‘It seems like it,’ Denchfield agreed. ‘Hardman thinks the working man has been seduced by unscrupulous capitalists with offers of higher standards of living, colour TV sets, videos, homes with garages for two family cars, central heating and nearby shops full of cheap goods. He thinks the yeoman spirit, the backbone of the working class, has been softened and undermined by the provision of plenty.’
‘He might have a point there,’ Webb agreed guardedly.
Denchfield regarded his visitor cautiously before going on. He had never been able to identify Webb’s true political beliefs because the man played devil’s advocate too often to reveal his deepest thoughts. By professional calling and comfortable lifestyle he should be a convinced and dyed blue Tory.
‘Hardman suspects revolution of the masses won’t break out until workers don their hair shirts and the irritation drives them wild again,’ Denchfield went on reflectively. ‘It seems that he was once a member of the Transport and General Workers’ Union but found himself the only voice crying in a wilderness of moral complacency.’
‘So he decided to put things right?’ Webb suggested grimly.
‘Up to a point, yes,’ Denchfield agreed. ‘He hopes his recruiting efforts will get him a top job in the Union of Associated Aircraft Engineers with representation on all the right Trades Union Committees.’
Webb tapped the pipe several times in the palm of his left hand to improve its air supply. The effort worked, briefly.
‘How far has he got and when can we hope to lose him from the club payroll?’ he asked.
Denchfield smiled cynically. ‘If you remember, I did get rid of him once, but you reinstated him over my head.’
Webb sighed regretfully. ‘Yes, yes, I know, but as I explained at the time, you simply can’t sack a man because he personally irritates you. There are procedures to go through, and the non-compliance of almost any of them will render arbitary dismissals unlawful. Such despotic action may also attract severe financial penalties the club can’t afford. In particular, one must be ultra cautious of politically active, or in modern parlance, of socially aware people. The courts lean, too favourably some say, in their direction. It’s a question of appearing to be impartial.’
‘And above all of being fireproof,’ Denchfield muttered cynically.
‘Quite,’ Webb agreed. He picked up the letter he had hardly referred to and slid it carefully back into the portfolio. He stood up after looking at his pipe reproachfully. It had gone out. He put it in his pocket. ‘You seem remarkably well informed on Mr Hardman,’ he observed as he prepared to leave, the curiosity that brought him into the club on a Monday morning having been satisfied by whatever his CFI had told him, and that seemed little enough.
Denchfield stood up with him, a relieved smile on his face. Was this the end of the pipe for another day, another week even?
‘One advantage of a service background is that it teaches you to ‘know your enemy’,’ Denchfield confided wryly.
‘And you know yours?’ Webb asked as he moved towards the door.
‘Not really,’ Denchfield admitted ruefully. ‘I have a fitter who was on one of my Fleet Air Arm squadrons. He has no love for Hardman and keeps me informed of his more outrageous excesses, on a ‘nod is as good as a wink’ basis, that is. There’s still honour among the working masses, it seems.’ He looked pointedly at the portfolio under Webb’s arm. ‘Where do you keep that?’ he asked. He had not seen it before, nor was he even aware of its existence.
Webb glanced down the folder. ‘Don’t worry, Simon. I don’t keep it here. I file it at the Broad Street Confidential Room, under ‘very classified’ terms.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘Have a good flight. Who did you say you were taking?’
‘Ellen Phillips.’
‘Andrew’s daughter?’ Webb interjected with surprise written over his face and in his voice. ‘Isn’t she qualified yet?’
‘Guess not,’ Denchfield fed the pencil he was still holding into one of the spare loops on his flying suit sleeve. ‘She keeps being distracted by work commitments. She logged sixty hours before going solo I remember.’
‘Women drivers, eh?’ Webb laughed indulgently.
Denchfield shrugged. ‘Perhaps, but she’s competent enough. It’s not her fault that she failed to qualify before this. Every time she tried to go solo one of her journalistic assignments came up and she dropped out of flying, sometimes for months at a time. Now she’s passed the solo hurdle, the land-away is proving a problem. Today’s her third attempt to get off.’
‘Is she here now?’ Webb asked moving into the corridor. ‘I’d like a word if she is.’
‘I saw her bending Roger Trent’s ear about an hour ago. He should be briefing her now. He covered most of her recent training.’
‘Competent lad, young Roger,’ Webb said approvingly. ‘He gave me a good flight to Paris a fortnight ago; very good.’
He walked off, mind already on other problems. Soon he would be back in the safe and familiar Law office in the heart of Bristol, flying club problems forgotten for another week.
Denchfield returned to his interrupted paperwork but had hardly started reading when Judy Taylor, his personal secretary, arrived with her usual distracting flurry of confusion. She dumped various packages on her desk and looked indignantly at Denchfield, disdain written all over her features.
‘The ‘Pipe’s’ been in here,’ she said accusingly, a picture of offended sensibilities. Without waiting for confirmation she flung the three office windows wide open. ‘I don’t know how you men stick that smell,’ she grumbled taking off her short coat and hanging it on a wall hook near her desk. ‘It’s awful.’
‘Presidents always smell like that,’ Denchfield assured her apologetically. ‘Especially on Monday mornings.’
Judy ignored the remark as she did most of the flippant comments that came her way in the office.
He leaned back in his chair to watch her, paperwork temporarily forgotten. As a spectator sport, watching Judy delighted him more than it should. He viewed her with the same exquisite sense of pleasure all men gain from contemplating feminine perfection. Unfortunately married to one of the club stewards he had never tried to extend their work relationship beyond that deemed proper for the conduct of their everyday secretarial commitments; but he enjoyed watching her nevertheless.
He stood up and handed her the papers he had been working on, but had not finished. ‘File these,’ he said. The office always seemed a more attractive when she was there, and without the other two occupants it was even better. He looked at his watch to see how much time remained before take-off. He had none.
‘Will you be back to-night?’ she asked, knowing it was not always possible to return from a land-away on the same day, especially after a late morning take-off.
‘I hope so,’ he told her. ‘I don’t actually know where I’m going yet, but we’ll talk later.’
‘Okay love, be good!’
Being a friendly extrovert Bristolian she called everyone by that engaging endearment, but it was not the affectionate term he hoped on hearing it for the first time. Nevertheless, each time he heard it addressed to him it left a warm glow, especially when they were alone: it seemed more personal then. Leaving the office he made his way to the strangely quiet ground floor rest room. Even if not flying there were usually several members sitting around reading flying magazines or drinking coffee and talking. It was, after all, a club and members were encouraged to use it as such.
As he moved through the well-appointed public rooms he noticed that even Quentin Burgess, a wealthy, dilettante club member with no noticeable ambitions except to go solo and fly himself around one day, was absent. Nor was the newly registered Burgess Porsche in the car park to give the club a sense of opulent grandeur.
He dismissed such observations on reaching the flight desk to find the duty supervisor filling in some paperwork after two line fitters had completed their servicing tasks on a club aircraft and had signed for them.
‘What have I got for the land-away?’ he asked.
After carefully verifying the wording of the form the two fitters had signed the duty supervisor glanced at the CFI and then at the State Board by his elbow.
‘23’ll come up first, boss,’ he decided. ‘The pre-flight’s almost completed. There’s a duff navigation bulb, but that won’t take long to change.’
Denchfield glanced through open nearby window. Strong late October morning sunlight flooded the concrete apron in front of the World War Two hangars the club rented from Avon County Council. On it two light aircraft sat noses pointing into a mild breeze that barely lifted the orange windsock on the far side of the field. That indicator presaged a good flying day, but the prospect held no special appeal to him. He had flown too often to feel any sense of anticipation to get airborne; flying was his paid job. He no longer felt an eager desire to reach for the sky and float with the birds above fleecy clouds. He did once; but that was many hundreds of flying hours ago.
His attention focused on a Cessna 172 standing nearest to the clubhouse. This was his allocated aircraft and although shiny in a new glossy coat of club colours, it was not new. It had recently returned to the club after a major overhaul. He test flew it a few days earlier and happily assessed it as acceptable for club use. It had no vices and the reconditioned engine pulled lustily when called on to produce power.
‘That’ll do fine,’ he said with an internal grimace of distaste. Long distance flights in slow single-engine light aircraft held little appeal for him. He preferred one of the four twin-engined aircraft on the club’s inventory, but his pupil was not twin qualified. Indeed, she was not single qualified until she successfully completed this flight. ‘Have you seen Miss Phillips?’ he asked, flicking through the servicing form and noting those things that interested a pilot before flight. All the fuel tanks were full and all the equipment was serviceable.
‘Yes, she was here a few moments ago with Roger,’ the supervisor informed him as he moved the flight forms to one side as Denchfield finished leafing though them. He liked a tidy working space. ‘I think they were heading for a Met Office briefing.’
‘OK. I’ll catch them there.’
Without asking, the keys to the club Range Rover were placed in his hands. Although the vehicle belonged to the engineers, it was generally accepted that the CFI had first call on it.
He found his quarry in the Met office but frowned disgustedly when the destination was revealed.
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ he protested indignantly, looking in astonishment between the dark haired Ellen Phillips and the youthful Roger Trent. ‘Do you know what’s up there?’ he demanded testily. ‘A bloody wind sock and a tin shed.’ He answered his own question with ill-disguised disgust.
‘I told you he wouldn’t buy it,’ Roger Trent told his pupil unhappily. He looked uncomfortable at the manifestation of the CFI’s annoyance for an undertaking what was patently a very undemanding task.
‘Thurso?’ Denchfield continued, malevolently searching the outlined meteorological map of the British Isles fastened to the wall of the Met Office for a more challenging destination. ‘Bloody hell! You only have to follow the compass northwards and land before you run out of the hard green stuff. What sort of a land-away exercise is that? Look, you even have a five-knot headwind straight on the nose. Come on, you can do better that. That’s no sort of a challenge.’
Ellen smiled serenely at Denchfield’s theatrical wrath and remained unconcerned by his outburst. She knew how to handle men.
‘There’s a good reason for this,’ she offered contritely with a partly genuine smile.
Denchfield melted slightly. ‘I’m listening,’ he said grumpily, then to the patiently waiting duty forecaster: ‘Excuse us a moment, Alan. This fairy tale should be worth listening to.’
The forecaster nodded, such playful dissents lightened his day.
‘I don’t want to waste Alan’s valuable time,’ Ellen began, grey eyes searching Denchfield’s face appealingly. ‘But this trip is all about killing three birds with one flight.’
‘Go on,’ he demanded sourly, half-sitting on a convenient table as though prepared to listen to a long involved explanation. Her reference to bird strikes didn’t set the scene well for a professional airman.
‘It’s all to do with two journalistic articles I’m working on,’ she continued hurriedly. ‘You know, the one about women learning to fly and the reactions she gets from people who know her,’ she nudged his arm knowingly. ‘Like the grief I’m getting now. Women’s lib sort of thing.’ She looked quizzically at him with suppressed amusement and quivering lips trying to restrain a smile.
‘Yes. I’ve read some of your stuff,’ he agreed, still unconvinced. ‘Judy showed it to me,’ he added defensively, lest it be assumed that reading women’s magazines formed part of his secret literary interest. ‘I thought the articles moderately good,’ he went on grudgingly. ‘Humorous, if a little libellous to the male species. My lawyer will be calling on yours at dawn.’
Ellen looked uncertain for a moment before realising he was joking. She did not need an angry CFI sitting next to her on a long distance flying test.
‘Well, I’m also doing an article on tree planting and how it’s altering the look and topography of the countryside. Did you know...?’ she paused to smile apologetically at the listening forecaster. ‘The area of afforestation of the British Isles has doubled from four per cent of the total land area of the UK to over eight percent and in Northern Ireland the percentage is even higher, in the last few years,’ she demanded.
‘No, I didn’t know that,’ Denchfield breathed, half-mockingly as he turned to Roger Trent. ‘Did you Biggles?’
‘Well, yes, actually I did, Ellen told me,’ Trent replied in the pedantic manner of a school know-all. He pulled at the grey RAF silk scarf knotted loosely around his throat; a relic of his front-line service flying days.
‘You mean to tell me,’ Denchfield demanded of Trent. ‘You’ve been spending time discussing things arboreal instead of things aeronautical in your spare time. No wonder your pupil’s so far behind.’
Trent looked at Ellen for support as she placed a hand on Denchfield’s forearm to divert his attention back to her explanation.
‘Let’s get the Met briefing over and I’ll explain over a coffee, or even better, when we’re airborne.’
‘I’ll be interested to hear more,’ he relented grimly. Then after a measured pause he turned to the forecaster. ‘OK, Alan what’ve you got to frighten us with.’
‘Spoilsport,’ the forecaster grunted, disappointed by the abrupt cessation of verbal hostilities. ‘Now I won’t know whether to worry about getting swamped by timber avalanches or showers of rain.’ He half-turned to his Met chart on the wall behind him and in well-practised sentences he briefed the aviators on the UK weather expected over the next twelve hours, more than enough time for the projected return flight.
‘In a word, mixture as for the last few days,’ he summarised looking at the assembly for questions. ‘Nothing much has changed.’
Ellen, content with the brief forecast, turned to go.
‘That low pressure zone off Iceland, the one you’ve marked with a letter P,’ Denchfield mentioned calmly. ‘That’s been loitering there for a few days now. What are its prospects?’
They all looked to the extreme edge of the map where a group of tightly packed isobars indicated fraught weather for any intrepid cod fishermen floating about under it.
‘Yes, you’re right,’ the forecaster agreed. ‘It’s been there a few days because its progress westwards is blocked by a stationary high over the British Isles. It’s deepened a little since this time yesterday and my guess is, once our ‘high’ moves over the North Sea and into Europe that little lot will head Scotland’s way. The prospects there will be pretty foul when it hits. There’s some pretty grotty weather under there, force 10 and stormy with it.’
‘But it won’t affect our flight plans over the next twenty-four hours?’ Ellen demanded, suddenly concerned that her invigilator would mark carelessness and non-attention to weather details as faults on her already ill omened flight.
The forecaster swung round to face them. ‘No, it shouldn’t,’ he assured them. ‘You should be there and back long before that comes anywhere near. Just don’t spend too much time hanging about window-shopping though, or you just might be weather bound for a few days. Best of luck and watch out for Robin Hood, or Tarzan, swinging through the trees.’ He smiled at Denchfield’s not too well disguised wince of disgust.
‘There are better places to be weather bound,’ Denchfield grunted sourly as they prepared to move away.
‘Especially if all you have talk about is trees,’ the forecaster sniggered.
‘Go and boil your head in an occluded front,’ Ellen muttered darkly. ‘I’m sure Simon would love to talk about trees for three days, wouldn’t you, Simon?’ She thrust her arm through his and rested her cheek on his shoulder in mock feminine docility.
Denchfield looked up at the ceiling for inspiration and found none.
‘If that front does start moving, how long will it take to affect our weather?’ he asked.
Serious again, the forecaster turned back to the meteorological map.
‘Depends,’ he said guardedly. ‘It could move quite quickly and be with us in a few hours; or it could stay in place a few more days, but I think you’ll be all right.’
They nodded and left as a Dan Air commercial pilot came in to claim the forecaster’s attention.
When they joined up again at the flying club Denchfield handed the Range Rover keys to Roger Trent who, as the next senior pilot, had charge of the vehicle while he was away.
When settled at a table with three plastic beakers of vending machine coffee Denchfield remarked sarcastically: ‘If I didn’t know better I’d swear you couldn’t arrange things better for a land-away. Even the wind is on your side, no drift to calculate no cloud to fly through on instruments.’
Ellen regarded him serenely and made no effort to defend herself as she settled elegantly into the soft leather of a rest room armchair. ‘About the forestry project,’ she interjected, ignoring his acidic outburst.
‘Forestry? You mean things that grow in great clumps and clutter up good landing sites?’ Denchfield asked teasingly.
She nodded knowing her leg was being pulled.
‘Yes, the same things birds sit in, or on; and it’s the great clumps that prompted my article.’ She balanced her coffee on the arm of her chair before continuing. ‘Last summer I took a motoring trip in Scotland and while tooling around in the far, far North I was struck by the amount of forestry planting going on up there. In one place I stopped on a small hill and looked around the horizon. As far as the eye could see there was nothing but fledgling forests of pine, or fir? Prickly coniferous dark green stuff anyway.’
‘Something to do with the national balance of payments perhaps?’ Denchfield offered cynically. ‘Or capital gains tax breaks, or inheritance tax planning, or something equally mundane for some super rich landowners with money to horde for their next of kin!’
‘Maybe. Maybe all of those things,’ Ellen agreed glaring at him witheringly for interrupting her thoughts. ‘But these plants were only two or three feet high and the landscape one of rolling hill country, barren certainly, but majestic, lonely and altogether too beautiful to be blanketed by square miles of uniform trees. That spectacular hill will completely disappear in a few years. These trees grow up to thirty feet and will block any view other than miles of endless trees and the ecology will be permanently changed.’ She regarded her listeners thoughtfully. ‘You know, that part of Scotland’s never been under forest, not since the last ice age. Even as late as Norman times reindeer and elk were hunted across unbroken tundra. That’s a shame.’
‘That’s progress,’ Trent muttered.
‘What’s your beef, then, if it’s not reindeer meat?’ Denchfield demanded unsympathetically. ‘Planting trees is bad for nature, or that hunting reindeer and elk should be re-introduced to satisfy the gentry’s bloodlust?’
Undeterred by the cynical interruptions Ellen went on: ‘The trip led me to believe that too much private land has fallen into government hands, through, as you just mentioned, Simon darling, tax gathering or the need to turn a quick, or in some cases, not so quick, dollar.’
‘Are they National Trust lands?’ Trent asked.
‘The National Trust isn’t administered by the Government,’ Denchfield reminded them pedantically. ‘Its land holdings are controlled by locally appointed committees, and their use is usually entrusted to community stalwarts who don’t approve of making sordid money.’
Ellen nodded in agreement, a movement that sent her short bobbed hair swirling around her ears. ‘Forget the National Trust,’ she said tersely, and then answering her own question before either of the two men could respond with cynical comments. ‘Saying that, have you noticed how much land has fallen into the lap of the Forestry Commission over the last few years? A hell of a lot, and they immediately put it down to forests of quick growing pines; not the long term more valuable hard wood trees.’
‘The answer is...’ Denchfield scoffed derisively. ‘If the land’s not commercially viable for agriculture, and the bit you’re talking about probable isn’t, you might as well plant a long term crop, like would you believe, trees.’
‘That’s not the answer and you know it,’ Ellen protested hotly. ‘We are all being confined to the boundaries of the metropolises as less and less land remains available for recreational activities?’
Denchfield looked at her disbelievingly for a full minute. Here was a woman whose family probably owned more than four percent of the British Isles between them, yet one of their privileged daughters was agonising about access to areas of the country nobody used anyway.
‘Eight percent under forest did you say?’ he asked. ‘I would think ninety-two per cent of the rest was plenty for most people’s recreational needs and there’s always Australia to stroll around if anyone want’s serious exercise. They have a fair bit of spare real estate down there they tell me ad nauseum.’
‘Oh dear,’ Ellen sighed regretfully. ‘I see I’m talking to a closed, blinkered mind.’ She glanced at her watch before finishing her coffee. It was time they were off.
Denchfield smiled condescendingly. ‘As an aviator, perhaps I don’t notice the two-dimensional condition of the world as much as I should,’ he conceded.
‘How long have you been flying then, Simon? If that’s not a rude generation gap question?’ Ellen enquired tartly.
Unruffled, Denchfield considered the question. ‘Let’s see! I joined the navy in nineteen fifty-seven, got my wings in nineteen fifty-nine, I suppose about twenty years at a rough guess,’ he calculated thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I suppose I should have noticed changes in the landscape in that time span, but then one tends to notice only the more radical alterations like motorways, refineries, power stations, new docks even; certainly new towns and high rise buildings. Things you can’t land on.’ He grinned patronisingly. ‘Ellen, I promise to take more notice of trees in future.’
‘Twenty years,’ breathed Ellen in mock admiration.
‘Now don’t be cheeky, child,’ he admonished her as he stood up and changed the subject. ‘You got some overnight things, just in case?’ he asked.
Ellen hefted a small flight bag in acknowledgement as he winked conspiratorially at Trent.
‘Bearing in mind Thurso’s dubious entertainment potential, I hope you realise you’ll be providing the distractions should we get socked in up there.’
Ellen never at a loss for a tart retort, smiled. ‘Sure,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve put a pack of cards in my bag and I’m good at gin rummy.’
‘Great,’ Denchfield murmured balefully. ‘And here’s me with a low boredom threshold, especially if I’m not winning.’
‘Then I’ll make sure you win sometimes.’ She patted his cheek fondly. She greatly admired Denchfield as a flyer and as a man. ‘Have you a pair of binoculars, Simon? They could be useful.’
Denchfield assured her that he had a pair in his flight bag.
‘You’ll be all right,’ Trent said encouragingly as he followed them out of the rest room and on to the aircraft hardstanding. ‘If you get into any trouble hand over the controls. I expect he’ll keep a check on where you are on the globe.’
‘That’s right, I can fly along the M5 and M6, without much difficulty,’ Denchfield grunted sourly. He was not convinced of the value of this particular flying exercise but found the thought of spending the whole day with Ellen a pleasant prospect. She was good company.
‘I’ll be seeing you. Good luck.’ Trent squeezed her elbow encouragingly. ‘The drinks are on me, if you pass and you if you don’t.’ He turned on his heel and disappeared back into the Club to attend his other students.
‘I like Roger. He’s nice,’ Ellen confided as they reached their aircraft and put their flight bags on board. She stood back to look over the aircraft speculatively. ‘I’ve not flown this one before, have I?’
‘Doubt it, we’ve only just received it back from Duxford after a refit,’ Denchfield informed her. He nodded to the waiting line fitter.
‘The engine’s hot, Miss,’ the fitter said warningly, as Ellen was about to swing the propeller to test the cylinder compression. ‘I’ve just finished a charging check.’
Denchfield wandered around the plane doing his own checks. It was an ingrained habit.
He rejoined Ellen as the line fitter plugged in the ground electrical supply. After comparing observations the two aviators climbed into their respective sides of the aircraft. Ellen on the left, him on the right as the non-command passenger.
A light breeze crossing the open airfield hardly lifted the windsock from its flaccid position and overhead no clouds marred the uniform blueness of the sky. The freezing level had yet to come down to its winter’s level and according to the Met briefing the whole trip should be accomplished in ice-free conditions. Denchfield calculated, separately from Ellen, that they had enough fuel to reach Thurso with adequate loitering reserves if they needed to hold or divert. Icing would add to the problems of a worried student pilot if there had been any, but that should not be beyond Ellen’s ability to cope. This, after all, was what long distance land-away exercises were all about. On this occasion the weather promised a pleasant flight.
As Ellen went through the starting procedure Denchfield glanced at the route chart mentally noting every observation marker made on it. It was his job to check her competency in every phase of the flight but he did not wish to unsettle her by appearing to sit on her shoulders like a black cloud.
‘All clear,’ Ellen called to the line fitter when ready to start. He gave a casual thumbs-up as another fitter wandered up from the direction of the hangar. Denchfield recognised Leslie Hardman the man Clifford Webb referred to earlier as the man reached up to grip the wing tip and looked, with his renowned truculence, at the aircraft occupants.
‘One moment,’ Denchfield said quietly before Ellen pressed the starter button. ‘Ask the fitter to come over.’ He motioned the man to join them at the cockpit.
The fitter sauntered over. ‘Yeah,’ he asked. ‘You got a problem.’
‘The pilot asked if everything was all clear,’ Denchfield reminded him.
‘Yeah. That’s right, and I said it was,’ the fitter responded rubbing his hands on a clean piece of rag tucked in his blue overall belt.
‘You waved,’ Denchfield corrected him. ‘The correct response is to reply clearly: that all is clear, if it is. That way the pilot will not be confused by sloppy hand signals and accidents won’t happen, and another thing,’ he raised his voice as the fitter turned to walk away. ‘Never approach an aircraft during a start sequence without asking if the ignition switches are off. You might just walk into a revolving propeller blade, understood.’
The fitter nodded sulkily and returned to his wing tip position where he carried on a lengthy conversation with Hardman before turning back to the waiting aviators.
‘All clear,’ Ellen called again.
The fitter then made an elaborate appraisal of the complete hardstanding, airfield and horizon before asserting that it was. He held up a thumb in visual confirmation.
The propeller blade flicked over once before disappearing in a whirling metal disc as the warm engine immediately picked up with a hearty roar. The occupants checked the reaction of all instruments and controls as they came alive. From his side of the cockpit Denchfield only had an oblique view of the main flight control panel as most of the flight instruments and engine controls were positioned for the benefit of the left-hand pilot. Although the aircraft was fitted with duel controls he did not have the same comprehensive array of instruments. In front of him were navigation instruments and radio controls. He switched these on and tuned into airfield ground control.
Ellen pulled the throat microphone over the long peaked American baseball cap she preferred to wear while flying and occasionally around the club. She looked tense, but her alert gaze flicked ceaselessly over the myriad of instruments that pilots need to inspire confidence in the machinery they are to fly.
Denchfield heard her request permission to taxi and once given by air traffic control she waved the chocks away. The line fitter and Hardman pulled both chocks clear of the wheels and a few seconds later the Cessna rolled out to the perimeter track and headed towards the take-off point on the distant duty runway.
Although Hardman remained outside the aircraft Denchfield could distinctly feel antipathy emanating from the hunched figure of the shop steward as he watched the tiny craft move away. That worthy’s dislike for the better off in society bordered on the neurotic Denchfield muttered to himself. The man needed psychiatric help to get his perceptions sorted out since it was distinctly unhealthy to carry the weight of the oppressed workers of the world’s resentment on his shoulders, especially during the working day.
His mildly vindictive thoughts gave way to the more urgent need to oversee his pupil’s steady progress to the main runway. Once there, Ellen requested and received permission to line up for take-off. After opening the throttle to eighty percent of full power she was cleared for take-off. Glancing sideways at her silent passenger she let the wheel brakes off, opened the throttle fully and allowed the aircraft to move forward at an increasing rate drawn by the speeding propeller. The bumps and vibrations of their progress became marked as the light aircraft struggled for speed and flight.
Beside her, Denchfield noted the positive way she coped with a very slight cross wind and how she compensated for the propeller torque tending to move the aircraft off course until increasing airflow speed allowed aerodynamic correction using flying controls.
Climbing past the club hangar Denchfield could see Hardman and the line fitter still talking at the spot they left a few minutes previously. As the two men disappeared astern he idly wondered what trouble they were brewing. No doubt he would find out when they returned later that evening.
Their flight path took them over the small town of Clevedon and towards the Bristol Channel and the river Severn. Portishead slid under the starboard wing tip as they turned north and soon they were looking down at the vast bulk of the suspension bridge spanning the river to the north of Bristol. The structure provided a useful connection from the West Country to South Wales. Evidence of the start of a second bridge crossing could be seen on both banks.
‘Not much sign of tree over-planting there,’ he commented dryly, his voice almost lost in the combined one hundred and fifty-six mile an hour slipstream and the robust roar of the six-cylinder engine. The message reached Ellen as she glanced in the indicated direction before returning to her flying task without comment. For the first part of the flight she wanted to prove that her attention was wholly taken up with the problems of settling down to steady state conditions; besides, she was not much interested in an area of the country she knew by heart. She had overflown this terrain many times when under instruction and when flying solo. The patches of woodlands visible to the cruising aircraft did not amount to the swamping of the landscape she complained about over coffee.
No clouds or ground haze provided good discrimination right up to the horizon. Days this clear, bright and turbulent free were memorable. High overhead, airliners on ‘Green One’ international air route traced arrow-like pathways to the west, or east depending on their intended landfall. Whichever way they flew they would arrive at destinations a good deal more exotic than Thurso.
An hour into the flight they could see Preston and were making good progress. Ellen visibly relaxed, but remained silent. Concentration on the flying task stilled her normal verbosity to almost zero as if suspecting she would be marked down for lack of task application. Now she was airborne and the mistress of her closed noisy world her main concern should be directed towards bringing the flight to a successful conclusion and to convincing the CFI of her aerial proficiency. She could bend his ear unmercifully another time.
A little later Denchfield stirred and glanced at the aerial map stowed between them and then at the approaching high ground. Carlisle lay ahead.
‘Turn five degrees to port,’ he ordered suddenly. ‘I want a nostalgic look at an old airfield where I was once stationed. It’s right on the coast of the Solway Firth.’
Ellen made the course correction and turned away from Carlisle towards the wide river mouth while Denchfield searched the landscape below. It had been some time since he last flew in that area, but it remained familiar territory from his days as the Station Maintenance Test Pilot clearing new aircraft for flight on naval air squadrons. They were busy times then because the abortive Suez Canal campaign was being waged and it was not known how that flare-up would develop.
‘There it is!’ he declared after a short visual search. ‘RNAS Anthorn.’ Ellen tilted the Cessna to look. ‘It’s closed now,’ he added wistfully. ‘It closed shortly after I left to go to Boscombe Down. It was a good station, regretted leaving it really.’ His voice trailed into silence as his attention focused on the airfield. From three thousand feet they could clearly see many helicopters lined up on one of the dispersals. He reached for the PTT button on the dual control he had not touched during the flight. With a circular motion of his left hand he indicated that he wanted Ellen to circle the airfield.
‘Anthorn tower! This is Alpha, Golf, Golf, Bravo. How do you read, over?’ he said into his microphone.
The Cessna flew in a wide circle using the helicopters as a turning point. There was a little static in the headphones but no response from the tower, nor did any sign of life appear anywhere on the airfield. The air traffic control state board and the jack staff indicated that the field was closed even to small aircraft wanting to put down there. A tractor with ganged mowers moved about slowly cutting the last of the summer’s growth alongside one of the runways. Denchfield repeated the call several times before pointing to the north for the Cessna to resume its flight course. Clearly the tower was not manned, but suddenly the headphones crackled into life.
‘Alpha, Golf, Golf, Bravo. This is Prestwick Tower, can I help you?’ Ellen started and looked at Denchfield in alarm as he pressed the PTT button again.
‘Prestwick Tower this is Alpha, Golf, Golf, Bravo. Understand Anthorn to be closed, over?’
‘Affirmative, Alpha, Golf, Golf, Bravo.’ Prestwick seemed distinctly uninterested in continuing the conversation now it did not concern them.
‘Prestwick Tower. I am visual. There are parked helicopters, but I cannot raise tower, over.’
‘Alpha Golf Golf Bravo. Wait one.’
Denchfield shook his head. ‘Strange,’ he muttered half to himself. They were no longer visual having dropped the airfield astern a few minutes previously, but Prestwick would know that from their radar trace. ‘I bet Prestwick won’t like that.’
‘Like what?’ Ellen asked inquisitively.
‘Us cluttering up the airwaves with idle chatter. Let that be a lesson to you, don’t do it unless you have to.’
‘Not guilty,’ she protested. ‘I don’t want to know if that airfield is open and I don’t want any black marks on my aviation record because you once flew from there.’
Denchfield smiled at her concern before pointing downwards.
‘If we land down there, will you marry me?’ he asked as they crossed the border into Scottish airspace. He leaned forward to gaze into her eyes with mock devotion.
‘At Gretna Green you mean?’ she asked mischievously. ‘You should have asked earlier. I only brought one pair of clean pants.’
‘And I didn’t bring the ring.’ He tapped an empty breast pocket to signify the omission. ‘On the way back then.’
‘I might hold you to that.’
They laughed as a voice cut in over their headsets.
‘Alpha, Golf, Golf, Bravo. This is Prestwick Tower. Understand Anthorn is on Care and Maintenance with part leased to the Forestry Commission for aircraft stowage and local operation, over.’
‘Roger. Prestwick Tower. Thank you. Out.’
‘Forestry Commission,’ he repeated incredulously as he exchanged startled glances with Ellen. ‘You know, those two words hardly ever appear in my vocabulary, but today I’ve heard them and used them more times than I’ve ever used them in my whole life.’
An exaggeration perhaps, but it made the point.
‘Did you notice how much forest surrounded that airfield?’ Ellen cut in gleefully.
‘Come on,’ Denchfield retorted scornfully. ‘There’s always been trees around Anthorn. I remember flying over loads of them to get on board, except at the sea end of the runway, that is.’ He remembered the rugby pitch, just in from the airfield boundary, was completely surrounded by sweet smelling pines and the playing area was one of the softest and springiest he had ever played on. ‘Damn! I forgot to count how many new trees had been planted for your survey,’ he added with a half grin.
‘Never mind, there’s plenty of forests ahead and they’re the ones I’m interested in. Get your glasses ready.’
Denchfield fumbled in his flight bag and produced his expensive Ziess binoculars acquired during his duty free days sailing in foreign parts for the Royal Navy. After removing the dust covers and adjusting the focus he scanned the ground below. From the height they were travelling he could see people on the ground quite clearly and could even read names of streets and businesses. Some pedestrians on the ground waved as the tiny aircraft flew overheard. The friendly gesture was more in hope than in expectation of a response. Seeing nothing more interesting than that, he put the glasses on a convenient ledge and settled back to enjoy the next leg to Edinburgh.
‘Not many bikinis being aired in the autumn sunshine,’ he observed gloomily.
‘I wonder why,’ Ellen retorted tartly. ‘It’s only October after all.’
Hills began gaining stature as Ellen climbed to compensate for the loss of usable height above sea level. In the clear air they could see the tall ramparts of the Cairngorms rising in the distance. Denchfield enjoyed overflying this part of the country when the weather was good and he could admire the dramatic savagery, especially when viewed from a small aircraft travelling near the ground. In bad weather he was pleased to add several thousand feet to his height and wish himself well away from the area where there was nowhere to land in an emergency and he had a great respect for the inflexibility of granite which was pretty unforgiving stuff to bump into at speed.
Flying further north Ellen noticed her passenger looking across her and out to the West more frequently. At one stage, he surveyed the area with the glasses, but made no comment. Following his gaze Ellen could not help noticing that the western horizon no longer looked crisp and clear. It had become indistinct. Ahead, her flight path was bright and sunny so she paid no particular attention to the increasing obscurity. They would reach their destination long before being overtaken by any dodgy weather approaching from that direction. Nor did the state of the horizon bother Denchfield too much. From his inspection he concluded that the long stationary weather front was on the move but it would not affect their flight into and out of Thurso and that was the immediate concern.
Between Perth and Dundee Denchfield calmly withdrew a note from his breast pocket and handed it to the pilot. Ellen eyed it with a sidelong glance and then allowed her nose to wrinkle in disgust as she read it. She had not expected any course alterations, although on any flight with an instructor this was always a possibility.
‘Overfly the Kyle of Lochaish and proceed to Thurso,’ she read.
With a free right hand she punched his thigh in mock irritation. Then with exaggerated care she trimmed the aircraft to fly hands off while she carefully re-plotted her navigation co-ordinates to take them on the required dogleg over the Kyle. Satisfied with her calculations, she swung the aircraft over the mountains to Fort William and headed west of her original course. The effort to re-jig the course was worthwhile and she pushed her luck by flying lower than some of the peaks around her. Denchfield coughed warningly, but pretended not to notice the blatant fracturing of height regulations. There would not be too many opportunities to enjoying flying days of this quality so the Nelson touch would not go amiss as long as it was accompanied by a stern lecture on the dangers of mountain flying when they arrived at their destination. On such a calm day there was little danger of wind sheer off the mountains and that was one of the biggest dangers facing mountain fliers in small aircraft. Objective dangers to people and cattle on the ground below would be a problem if anyone saw fit to take their aircraft’s number and report them, but he would worry about that later.
Denchfield expected protests from his pupil following the course alteration, but apart from the physical assault, the exercise was carried out with a precision, neatness and unfussed casualness that surprised him. He expected confusion and head scratching. After putting away the charts and pencils Ellen radioed ahead to Thurso giving the change of course and a new estimated time of arrival.
Flying north-west Ellen could clearly see what had been interesting the CFI for the last hour or so. The western horizon was definitely more obscured, nothing dramatic, just a reduction in the degree of visibility in that direction. With less than an hour’s airtime remaining before landing nothing much could affect them, the problem would come at Thurso. They needed a quick turn round and a speedy take-off back to Bristol. No chance of savouring the delights of that northern township on this trip, she laughed to herself knowing her disgruntled companion would not be disappointed by that prospect.
The impressive landscape slipped slowly under their wings, one minute seeming to brush their belly and the next falling away into deep Glens and valleys with such giddy rapidity it churned the stomach. Ellen felt cheated that she could not fully enjoy the scenery as a spectator. Her duties as controller of their magic carpet precluded her from allowing her gaze to feast endlessly on the scenery she found so appealing. Her piloting duties meant constantly judging distances from zooming rock faces and continually altering control settings to gain the most satisfaction from the flight; her flight.
Beside her Denchfield divided his time between watching the undulating ground and checking the compass headings.
‘Have you noticed anything about the wind?’ he asked at length.
Ellen looked at him doubtfully. Wind direction and speed were subjects some way down on her list of priorities until they needed to land, and that manoeuvre was some way off.
After glancing below several times, she offered: ‘The wind’s changed.’ It had shifted to the west a good many degrees, but was still too slight to cause trouble. They skimmed the crest of a rounded mountain.