The single height reading lit up on the small meter fitted above the main panel between the two pilots. He used his hand to direct Stafford’s attention to it.
“Great to see it live,” said Stafford. “It’s only ever been a simulation on a workshop bench for me.”
Rob remained enigmatic, trying to look busy and occupied, which was easy, because he was.
As he rounded the final turn to face the runway at ninety degrees, he realised he was going to have to push his luck again with the intercom. He isolated the rear crew once more and made the quick call to ATC for take-off permission, advising them that he would head west after climb out.
He switched Kilton’s intercom back on, to pre-empt another visit up the ladder, and he acknowledged the clearance with a curt, “Roger.”
That was it. He was seconds away from getting airborne and nearly over the first significant hurdle.
Rob looked across to Stafford and out of the side window to check the approach to the runway, ensuring they were safe to line up.
He needed to know the civilian had armed his ejection seat correctly.
More talking.
“Pins?” he said quickly.
Stafford pointed at the removed pins, now in their stowage position.
“Switch?”
Stafford pointed down to his side and gave a thumbs up. “Armed!”
Rob turned back and checked the approach lane to the airfield again. All clear.
He made quick work of the line-up and advanced the throttles to a take-off setting. The engines responded well; they rolled, gathering pace. A white needle climbed around the airspeed indicator.
The noise level rose. Rob’s nostrils had already filled with the familiar smell of the Vulcan’s interior, filling his mind with unwanted images.
For a moment he imagined the ghost of Christopher Milford watching Kilton in his seat, and then chastised himself for not concentrating. He closed and opened his eyes as the centre lines disappeared under the nose at an increasing rate.
Rob eased the stick back, allowed the nose to rise to the horizon, and held it there as the four-engined, large delta wing bomber left the ground.
He tapped the wheel brakes and moved the landing gear handle up.
Loud whirring and bangs from below as the gear tucked itself away.
He banked right and headed west.
The tasking called for a gentle flight in the area immediately west of the airfield, but that didn’t suit Rob’s purpose. He needed a full demonstration, deep in the hills.
Somewhere their lives would depend on the integrity of the Guiding Light system.
That wasn’t the downs around Wiltshire; he needed to get them into Wales.
Kilton spoke to Stafford, taking him through the height readings.
Rob climbed the Vulcan to expedite their transit.
Eventually, Kilton called to him. “When you’re ready, Red, let’s get down to one thousand feet and begin the demo.”
Rob ignored him and continued to climb.
Kilton didn’t seem to notice at first. He and Stafford discussed how the equipment would be installed in existing aircraft.
Rob kept the aircraft moving fast. It was a perfect day for visibility and he tried to pick out Bath ahead, aiming for the city as a convenient run toward the Severn Estuary.
“Come on, Brunson, let’s get this thing down.”
Rob managed to get them to twelve thousand feet. The ground speed was pleasingly high in the thin air, but he could sense Kilton’s patience being stretched. He levelled off and then tipped the aircraft into a very gentle descent. He hoped it would placate the CO.
“Brunson?” Kilton urged again, a couple of minutes later.
They were already over Bath; he’d done well to get them in spitting distance of the hills. Finally, Rob lowered the nose another ten degrees and edged the throttles back as gravity added to their airspeed.
He levelled out at one thousand feet between Newport and Cardiff. The Brecon Beacons were on the nose.
He pushed the nose down and let the Vulcan settle at five hundred feet. Looking down to the Guiding Light panel, he selected three hundred feet as the target height and, using a waypoint that was about two hundred miles north, in Anglesey, he engaged the system.
There was a familiar jolt as the autopilot took over, fed from Guiding Light.
The nose wrenched down and the aircraft repositioned three hundred feet above the ground. The auto-throttle was busy with the four levers to his right. Rob checked they’d reached the target speed of 320 knots.
The aircraft started to complain as it heaved through the turns. The physical nature of the flight had changed significantly from the relatively genteel cruise. Guiding Light was working hard.
“This is low,” said Stafford next to him, although he seemed nonchalant.
It was taking Kilton a while to register that Rob had deviated significantly from the flight plan.
Meanwhile, aware of the frailty of the system, Rob kept his eyes fixed on the terrain ahead, ready to intervene.
Kilton finally spoke over the intercom. “Hey! Up please, Brunson.”
Rob ignored him.
“Red. Up. Can we get back to one thousand, please? We’re at bloody three hundred.”
Rob was breathing heavily; the combination of anxiety from his situation and a fierce focus on the flying was straining his energy levels.
“Red!” Kilton shouted.
Rob raised his hand away from the control column he was shadowing. He pulled his oxygen mask away from his face. Cooler air washed over him and he raised his visor and turned toward Ewan Stafford.
The stout businessman’s eyes bulged over his own mask.
“What’s going on?” Kilton shouted over the intercom from the back. “For the last time, Brunson, climb this aircraft to a safe height.”
But the next voice he heard was Stafford’s.
“Mark. Red Brunson isn’t here. I think we have a problem.”
Stafford didn’t take his eyes off Rob, and Rob continued to stare back at him, no longer covering the controls. Any serious problem from Guiding Light now would consume all three of them.
Rob raised his hands up to emphasise the situation.
He pushed his loosely hanging oxygen mask over his mouth and spoke, with no attempt to disguise his own voice. “I think we’ll stay low,” he said, slowly and deliberately.
The aircraft continued to clank about in the thick surface air, but despite the rough ride, Mark Kilton had unstrapped. His face appeared between Rob and Stafford at the top of the pilots’ ladder.
Rob moved his right hand to the control column; his left hovered over the Guiding Light control panel by the side of the seat.
Rob reattached his oxygen mask and faced front. “If you try to take control, I’ll push us into the ground. If you try to cancel Guiding Light, I will push us into the ground.”
He could hear the desperation in his own voice.
Kilton shook his head, contempt burning in his eyes.
“Are you out of your mind, May? How the hell did you get in here? Where’s Brunson?”
“Red thought it best that I got a final chance to demonstrate Guiding Light to the only two men who can stop it.”
“Did he? Well, that’s another career ended. What is wrong with you stupid people? Now, for Christ’s sake, get us away from the ground.”
“Is there a reason why we shouldn’t be putting Guiding Light to the test, sir? Do you need me to climb away and leave this to some other crews?”
“Climb the bloody aircraft to one thousand feet as ordered. That’s a final warning, May.”
There was the merest edge of desperation in Kilton’s voice. Rob enjoyed it. He saw an image of him standing naked in front of Kilton in the changing room.