He reached out and flicked the three switches, turned around and pointed to a panel, which suddenly bleeped behind them. ALISS had suddenly come to life, with a small TV screen displaying a white line in the centre. Under what looked like a series of waves, was a set of numbers. Hornsby walked over to the panel and placed his hand underneath the desk below to pull out a tray with a small teleprinter on it. He showed it to the others.
‘ALISS detects all known submarines, then the details are printed out here. A unique number code appears, once the sensor tracks a target and homes in on its sonar reading.’
He then thought of something, something that might just work, providing the Royal Navy task force went along with it. ‘If we could fly old Doris out there, we could track this rogue sub and identify it. We could even force it not only to start communicating, but surface. I know we haven’t got any weapons or sonobuoys, but this sub won’t know that, and we could scare them to think we mean business. We have the ALISS equipment, and we have our active and passive radars. We can do everything a Nimrod can do, apart from attack.’
Still monitoring the transmissions, they all knew there was no other way, Doris had to fly again.
Hornsby addressed them. ‘I take it you all agree we go?
There was complete silence from the others. They simply stared at him as if he was mad.
‘Right, you’re all about to become part of a Shackleton crew. Firstly, I’m going to need a co-pilot. Any volunteers?’
Reynolds stepped forward. ‘I’ve done some hours on a DC-3 and DC-6 in the Congo.’
Hornsby wasn’t surprised. ‘Good, then climb into this seat next to me please, David. You’ll have to double-up as my navigator as well.’
He turned to the others. ‘Okay, so we now need a radar and radio operator.’ He looked at Swan. ‘That can be you, Alex. Which leaves you as my flight engineer, Jack.
Swan and Rowse looked at Hornsby as though he had just arrived on the planet.
‘Right gents, a quick instruction in your roles.’ He went over to the radar console and explained the two screens to Swan. There were quite a few switches and dials the SID man needed to know how to operate.
After a few questions, Swan was confident he had the hang of things. He stared at the panel to familiarise himself with the practicalities of what the RAF officer had told him.
Hornsby then turned to Rowse. ‘Okay Jack, your job aboard is probably the most important, next to mine.’ He explained the importance of monitoring both RPM levels on all four of the Griffon engines, and the fuel. On the panel, each dial was significant in keeping the Shackleton airborne.
Rowse suddenly thought he had pulled the shortest straw.
Hornsby answered a few of his questions, then before returning to his seat, gave the Foreign Office envoy a reassuring pat on the back. Securing himself, he now turned to Reynolds.
‘Okay David, this should all be similar to the DC-3 — and the DC-6, for that matter. I am going to start with engine number three, then four, two and one.’ He reached for the starter button.
‘Clear start three?’
Reynolds looked out as smoke came from the inner engine on the starboard wing, and it coughed into life, the big contra-rotating propeller blades starting to move.
‘Contact three, John.’
Hornsby reached for another switch.
‘Clear start four?’
Reynolds checked the outer engine and acknowledged contact. After allowing number three engine to turn at full revs, they then repeated the process for the next engine, until all propellers were spinning at idling speed.
Hornsby checked the RPM levels and Rowse suddenly remembered how deafening it was, even sitting inside. Swan also felt the vibrations, as Hornsby adjusted the throttles.
‘Oil pressure on three?’
‘Oil pressure three, check.’
Reynolds knew, just like the multiple engine types that he had flown, the number three engine was crucial to all of the other functions of the aircraft. The electrics, hydraulics and most importantly, the fuel pumps, all relied on this unit running correctly. ‘Three’s on the throttle John, temperature normal.’
Hornsby nodded. As he released the brakes and pushed the throttle lever forward, the old plane started to lumber along the tarmac for the first time in almost a month.
He spoke into his microphone.
‘Nicosia tower, Doris-two-zero-three, requesting taxiing clearance.’
Inside the tower, the RAF controller granted the request; he also reinforced the Indian officer’s warning of possible hostile activity outside the perimeter. With their radio sets plugged in, the other three members of the crew also received this message.
‘What does he mean?’ Rowse asked, still keeping his eyes on the dials that he had just been shown. Hornsby shouted to him from behind the bulkhead. ‘Sorry chaps, with all this excitement in getting old Doris airborne again, I forgot to inform you we could be shot at as we climb out of the airport, either by the Greeks or the Turks. They both seem to hate us at the moment, for not being able to handle the Geneva talks very well, so when they see the RAF roundels on this plane, we might literally be receiving some flak from both of them.’
Rowse gulped.
‘Oh my God! I only came here to get the document. I didn’t expect to be going to bloody war!’
‘So let’s just hope they don’t have any SAMs or AA guns,’ teased Reynolds.
Hornsby, choosing to ignore the remark, brought the four engines to a constant whine, then easing on the throttles made the turn towards the taxiway. As the Shackleton started to pivot on its undercarriage, Swan looked out of his side window.
‘Looks like we’ve gained an audience of well-wishers.’
Outside, a row of blue beret-wearing soldiers had gathered to witness the plane leaving the airport. Also in the line was Major Singh. Hornsby gave them all a friendly wave, then stopped and spoke to the tower again.
‘Doris-two-zero-three to tower, engines running normal- making route to main runway — over.’
His motley crew sat at their stations in silence as their four-engine beast staggered towards the runway. He ordered the pre-flight checks to ensure that everyone was ready, then pushed on the throttles, returning the engines to their familiar whine.
‘Nicosia Tower, permission for take-off.’
The tower came back straight away.
‘Permission granted for take-off, wind speed is ten knots south, south-easterly with a cloudless sky. Good luck, Doris-two-zero-three.’
The Shackleton moved slowly, bouncing along on its tricycle undercarriage. Then, as Hornsby pushed the throttles further, the whine became a sudden roar, the engines being brought up to maximum revs.
The centre line markings started to zoom underneath them, then the machine started to lift. Hornsby eased the yoke towards him and lifted the grey and white old lady into the air.
At two hundred feet, he banked the plane to the right in an evasive manoeuvre should they be being aimed at by soldiers with rifles or machine guns. As for any guided missiles, luck now needed to be in his hands.
Swan gazed out of the side window to see pockets of soldiers camped outside the airport. Now at nine hundred feet, he was relieved no-one had decided to take a pot-shot at the old aircraft.
Hornsby was also relieved. He had prepared himself for the worst in having to almost zigzag across the sky to avoid the hail of gunfire, following their sudden surprise take-off.