Higgins then turned to his friends. ‘I thought this spot would be suitable. I’ve had the privilege of seeing the prototype of this aircraft, take off from a remote site, up in Norfolk, and believe me, it can most certainly throw up a lot of dust, when it takes off vertically.’
Howard Barnett decided to pass the time by probing further on Higgins’s comment. ‘Was that the Kestrel trials, you were referring to, Sir Alistair?’
‘Yes, indeed it was, Howard. I was up there with the damage assessment team, after one of the German pilots of the Tripartite Kestrel Evaluation Squadron, a Major Barkhorn, had landed a bit too hard on his landing pad, and smashed up the bottom of his plane. He was fine, and having been a fighter ace during the war, jested to us, he had just knocked up his three hundred and first Allied aircraft kill.’
The group laughed in unison, as the vehicles next to the aircraft started up and moved away.
Swan looked at his watch. ‘The pilot should be leaving the Post Office Tower, any minute now,’ he commented to the others.
On the thirty fourth floor of the Post Office Tower, Squadron Leader Tom Lecky-Thompson, stood under the official marker banner for the race, and next to him, a bespectacled man wearing a navy suit, stood holding up a stopwatch; a big lapel badge revealing him as the official timekeeper. He looked across to another man, who stood with binoculars, looking out the window, at Big Ben, then observed the man raise his hand to indicate the time was now officially 09:45.
Standing right beside the pilot, the official put out his hand, and then suddenly dropped it. The race had started.
A few minutes later, the RAF pilot was running down Fitzroy Street, alongside crowds of well-wishers, towards a building site, where an RAF Wessex helicopter of Number 72 Squadron, awaited him for his short flight to RAF ST PANCRAS.
At a few minutes to ten o’clock, the whipping rotors of the Wessex, were suddenly heard piercing the white noise of anticipation from the eager crowd, and in the VIP area, Arthur Gable pointed to the sky, as the camouflaged machine swooped in over buildings and landed on another purposely-built platform, erected fifty feet across from the parked Harrier.
Behind the VIP enclosure, Trost stealthily moved among the spectators. Hoffenberg was now standing a few feet behind Alex Swan, as he obliviously watched the spectacle in front of him, with Higgins and Howard Barnett.
Next to Barnett, his wife Heidi used one hand to clutch at her hat, keeping it from the strong gust of wind, caused by the thrashing rotors of the helicopter, as it set down on the pad.
Hoffenberg walked behind Swan, giving his signal to Trost. The gunman moved into position, now only a few feet behind his target. He watched the back of Swan, studying the man’s profile, as he stood viewing the helicopter and reached inside his zipped jacket, to feel for the grip of his Mauser P-38 automatic pistol.
The Wessex whipped up a spray of dust, peppering the crowd. Then everyone cheered, as Lecky-Thompson jumped out of the cargo hatch, and ran towards the Harrier, giving the crowd a wave.
During his short flight in the helicopter, the ground equipment surrounding the plane, had been hastily moved away to the side of the platform, giving him a clear path. A short distance behind the Harrier, a lone fire engine with fire crew at the ready, stood on station, should it be required.
The pilot climbed up the ladder into the cockpit of the little strike fighter, and strapped himself into the Martin Baker Mk6 ejector seat. He then gave a thumbs-up sign to the ground crew, who detached the ladder, moving it away from the platform. Inside the cockpit, Lecky-Thompson, noticed that the controls were sprinkled with speckles of coal dust, from the breeze, he could feel on his face. He reached for the canopy handle and pulled it towards him to secure it, then pushed the throttle forward and moved the vector lever, to down.
The low whine of the engine turned into a roar, as the Pegasus 103 turbofan, kicked
into life. The four exhaust nozzles, two either side of the plane, moved to point down to the ground, as many of the spectators, placed their hands over their ears in a feeble attempt to muffle the sound; the infants sitting in their pushchairs began to scream. Suddenly, an RAF ground crewmember leapt for the orange windsock, flying about on its pole, and throwing his arms around it, secured it with his body, as the aircraft started to lift off the ground, throwing a huge cloud of coal dust all around, obscuring the people from the pilot’s view.
Trost pulled out the Mauser and brought it down to his hip. The jet noise increased. Feeling the darts of dust hit her face, Heidi Barnett panicked, releasing the grip on her hat, to protect herself. With nothing clamping it to her head, the hat blew off and went behind her.
Heidi screamed, and Higgins turned quickly to grab it, noticing that it had been trapped by the man standing behind them, taken by surprise by the fabric projectile. Higgins saw the hat pressing against the man’s lower body, then he saw the black silencer of the pistol, and in a lightning reaction, leapt at him. ‘Look out Alex!’ Higgins shouted.
Swan moved quickly, as the Onyx Cross assassin fired. Higgins fell on him, knocking the gun from his hand. It smashed to the ground, and Gable kicked it out of the way. Trost struggled under the bulky body of the Air Commodore, as he writhed on top of him. People took their eyes momentarily off the rising Harrier, to look in the direction of this sudden commotion. Some of them quickly dispersing, unsure of what sort of scene they were witnessing.
Gable picked up the gun and pointed it down at Trost, shouting at him. ‘Don’t move or I’ll shoot.’
The German froze, and now staring at his own pistol, raised his hands. He looked around. Where did Hoffenberg go?
Higgins placed his hands on the ground and slowly pushed himself up, freeing the man beneath him. Swan then noticed a small pool of blood on the man’s trousers and suddenly, saw Higgins falling forward again. ‘Sir Alistair!’ Swan leant down to support him and saw the blood on his uniform jacket ‘You’re bleeding, old chap, keep still.’
With the Mauser still in his hand, Gable beckoned the German to get up, as two RAF Regiment guards, carrying their rifles, rushed through the crowd to arrive at the scene.
The German Air Attaché, had slipped away, walking briskly back to the car. ‘Drive! — Get us out of here!’
Baumann shifted into gear to hastily join the traffic, entering the London Ring Road.
Back at the coal yard, Swan held onto Higgins. His left trouser leg was soaked with blood and Swan beckoned to the guards. ‘He’s been shot, call an ambulance.’
One of them looked over at the ambulance in situ for the event. He summoned it, and the driver responded. As the ambulance moved over to them, the remaining crowd parted to allow it through.
In the air, the Harrier climbed higher, slowly flying over a gasometer, and lifting further into the clear blue sky, while on the ground, the medics were attending to Higgins, as he lay on his back with a gushing wound to his stomach.
Swan looked at him. He had to keep the big man talking. ‘Fancy that, looks like, Heidi Barnett’s big hat, saved our lives, old boy,’ he quipped, trying to keep the situation as light hearted as possible. Swan then watched as the guards from the RAF Regiment, marched Trost over to the back of the Land Rover. As one of them pointed his rifle, the other instructed the small man to climb inside.
Gable looked down at the gun, suddenly realising that he was probably holding the murder weapon, used to kill Karl Ruger. He stared in disbelief, as the medics managed to stop the bleeding, and lifting the wounded Higgins onto a stretcher.