Twenty minutes later, Adam eased himself out of their tight shelter. There was no one in the hangar and he worked his way carefully across towards the door through which they had entered, dodging behind the crates for cover in case anyone suddenly entered the building. When he reached the door, he listened for any movement outside before turning the handle and opening it slightly.
It was a busy scene.
The runway area was guarded by armed Stermabeitalung. The two Jet Ranger helicopters had been pulled out of the far hangar and sat parked next to the Citation Jet, one of the twin engined Pipers and the single engined Cessna. A fuel bowser had just finished refuelling the second helicopter and was now backing away from the row of aircraft as two jeeps and a black Mercedes came up the road from the main complex and stopped at the ramp, next to the parked aircraft.
Curly Top sat in the first Jeep and he swung out and walked back to the black Mercedes. His colleagues in the Jeeps, five of them, followed and lined up next to him, as a guard of honour for the passengers in the car. Adam noted that they were all out of the uniforms; that they wore civilian suits and overcoats.
Curly Top leant forward and opened the rear door of the Mercedes.
Adam recognised the first man who came out. It was Curly Top's superior, the bastard who'd kicked him round the room before they'd taken him off to be tortured. He saw the men salute him, then turn and wait for the next passenger.
Adam didn't know this one, but sensed he was important, that he was the man. The storm troopers round the perimeter area snapped to attention, the guard of honour saluted in the old Nazi style. The Fuhrer, as Adam dubbed him, returned the salute and walked towards the helicopters. The others fell in step behind him. When they reached the aircraft, the Fuhrer turned to his men as they formed a semicircle round him.
They were over sixty metres from where Adam watched through the small gap in the door, too far to be overheard. But he could tell it was important, that the listeners hung on the Fuhrer's every word. When the speech was over, he stepped forward and shook the hand of each member of the guard of honour, six of them including Curly Top.
The Jet Rangers started to turn their rotors as the final words were spoken. Then Curly Top and two of the men climbed into one helicopter, the other three into the second.
As the helicopters wound up their rotors and lifted into the air, tilted to their left and swept away towards the north, the Fuhrer and his deputy crossed over to the CitationJet and clambered in.
Four minutes later the small jet lifted off the runway and also banked to the north.
'No point hanging round here,' Adam said to Billie when he had returned to their hideaway. ‘Game’s over. Time to move on.'
'What about, wait until it's dark?'
'Somebody changed the rules.'
'How do we get out of here?'
He grinned. 'With the birds.'
The runway perimeter was deserted when they got to the entrance. He led her out of the hangar and towards the line of planes, keeping under the protection of the hangar walls. They could hear the roar of motor engines in the distance and the occasional shout, but no one approached as they made their way to the ramp.
'You're putting me on,' she said, holding back as he took her arm and led her towards the aircraft.
'I've had lessons.'
'Lesson.'
'That was with two engines. This bird's only got one. Piece of cake.'
‘You’re crazy, Adam,' she said, digging her heels in and stopping him. 'But I'd like us to have a chance at living our lives. I don't think this is a good idea.'
'It's the only idea'
'Damn you, tough guy. This isn't a game.' She instantly regretted her words. 'You really take this 'til death us do part' stuff seriously.'
'Come on,' he reassured her, knowing the fear had returned now she was out in the open. 'It's the easiest way out of here.'
He opened the door of the single-engined Cessna, a Skyhawk 172. He searched the panel and saw the key inserted in the starter switch. It looked similar to the Seneca he had flown with Jenny. Only this time there was only one throttle and one mixture control instead of the two that had confronted him on the twin. 'Come on,' he urged her, stepping back and helping her into the right hand seat. Then he climbed in the left hand one and pulled the door shut.
He knew time was against him. If the engine didn't start immediately, the sound would alert any storm troopers in the vicinity. He tried to remember what Jenny Dale had taught him.
Battery. He hit the master switch and saw the instruments come to life. The fuel gauge read low, but enough to fly them out of here.
Magnetoes. He found the switch and turned them on.
Starter. Turn the key and bring the engine to life. He looked out of the window to check there were no storm troopers nearby. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, he leant forward and turned on the key.
Grunch, grunch. Metal on metal. The engine turned but nothing happened. He looked across at Billie, but she was busily scanning the area for any intruders. Grunch, grunch, grunch. He turned it again, but the engine still refused to start.
Shit, Marcus. It's got to start. What have I forgotten?
'There's someone coming,' warned Billie, pointing to the south.
He looked up and saw two Stermabeitalung about two hundred metres away. They were walking slowly towards the hangars, unaware of what was happening in the small plane.
Grunch, grunch.
'They're coming…'. The alarm was building in her voice.
Grunch, grunch.
What is it, Marcus? What…?
'They're looking over this way,' she shouted.
The fuel. There's no bloody fuel. Of course the thing wouldn't start. He leant forward and pushed the mixture lever forward, then pushed the throttle to its idle position. Just as he remembered Jenny doing.
It fired as soon as he turned the key, burst into life as it caught the precious vapour and sparked the first explosion that moved the first cylinder.
'They've seen us,' she warned him again.
'We're on our way,' he shouted back at her over the roar of the engine. He pushed the throttle forward, but the plane shuddered where it stood, refusing to move.
The brake. Kick it off. He looked down, found the small lever to his left, and twisted it free. The plane finally rolled forward.
He looked up and saw the two Stermabeitalung frantically signalling to unseen colleagues. One of them was shouting into a hand held radio transceiver.
He pulled the power back and pushed on the brakes. He was taxiing too fast. Then he steered the small aircraft as he had Jenny's Seneca, by the pedals that were linked to the front wheel.
He looked up as he reached the runway and saw that many more Stermabeitalung had arrived. They were in general confusion, but some of them were running towards aircraft.
He lined the Skyhawk up with the centreline and pushed the throttle towards the firewall. The engine surged to full power and the plane started to roll forward. In the distance he heard the rat-a-tat-tat of an automatic being fired. He heard Billie cursing and yelling at him, but he ignored it, concentrated on the task in hand.
He looked at the airspeed indicator and saw they were thundering along at over sixty knots. He wasn't sure what speed the small aircraft would fly at, so he waited while the speed increased and the runway threshold got nearer.
Rat-a-tat-tat. The firing was closer, only this time it was more than one gun.
Time to go, Marcus.
He pulled the yolk back and the nose lifted, held itself for a moment, stuttered, then started to climb as the plane staggered into the air.