Just as I’m asking Simon if he can see flashing lights in the vicinity of the landing site, the radio burst into life.
“Zulu Zulu Alpha fucking crawling with Zulus!”
Not quite the standard of radio procedure we would hope for but it certainly gets the message across – the landing site we have called Alpha is full of unwanted guests, most likely police or Army.
“Roger that revert to Delta send ETA Over,” I reply.
Simon gives me a new heading for landing site Delta, which is now only five minutes flying time away.
A female voice comes over the radio with the sound of a screaming engine in the background. “Delta, Delta two zero with any luck, but think we are being followed!”
“Roger. Pretty sure we can see you, and yes, it looks like there are flashing lights a mile or so behind you,” Simon replies.
I slow down to sixty knots to use less power and therefore less fuel. Don’t want to land too early, and the change of locations is already eating into our meagre reserve of ten minutes flying time.
As we identify the landing site at a range of about two miles we can now clearly see the rapidly approaching vehicle, a Toyota Land Cruiser, and a convoy of three vehicles with, what we assume are, blue flashing lights, but, of course, they just look a different shade of green to us.
I time the landing in order for us to be on the ground just a few seconds before the first vehicle arrives.
“Don’t waste any time. Zulus are right up your arse!” I scream into the radio.
Simon is out of the aircraft in a flash, HK-53 in his right hand and his left holding the rear door open. The Land Cruiser screeches to a halt in a cloud of dust only feet away. The doors fly open and six people stumble out and dash towards Simon.
As everyone is piling into the back, the first of the Zulus arrive, with the next two rapidly approaching. Two figures, which I guess are police, brandish their pistols and start to take un-aimed shots towards us. Simon reacts immediately, two bursts from his Heckler and Koch send the police officers scurrying behind their vehicle.
Simon is back on board with the six passengers, two more than we expected, crammed into the back.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here!” shouts Simon, as he sticks his weapon far enough out of the window to avoid red-hot spent cartridges rattling around the cockpit, the last thing we need right now, as he sends another couple of bursts of automatic fire towards the police vehicles.
Getting the fuck out of here is easier said than done. We are now way over our maximum take-off weight and a quick lift-off just isn’t possible. The only way to get airborne is by using a technique known as a ‘cushion creep’ to very gently ease forward at no more than four feet from the ground and then dive over the edge of the plateau. We can now only hope to pick up sufficient airspeed to give us the lift we need before hitting the bottom of the valley. The technique works, the airspeed steadily increases. Simon gets the landing gear up and we slowly gain height. I am now able to pull sufficient power to, just about, get us over the ridge and towards the Mediterranean.
“Well, wasn’t that fun. Just like being back in the mob,” Simon says with a chuckle.
“Not over yet, I’m afraid mate,” I reply. “With the extra two passengers we are having to burn more fuel and I reckon there is a reasonable chance we could be taking a quick dip before the night is over.”
A long period of silence follows as I contemplate the options and, I guess, Simon is doing the same. With a fraction over two hundred kilogrammes of fuel remaining in the two main tanks, and the auxiliary tank completely empty, according to the gauges. We still have over one hundred and sixty miles to run, one hundred of them over water, and I calculate that leaves us about ten miles short. Fuel gauges are not entirely accurate and are usually set to under-read slightly, but I can’t be certain.
I decide to go for it.
I call the QRF, “Quebec Quebec this is Golf. Charlie safely extracted. Returning to base Over.”
“Roger that. Standing down. See you there,” comes the reply.
For the next forty minutes, or so, we both sit in silence spending far more time looking at the fuel gauges than we do looking ahead.
With fifty miles to run, the Fuel Low warning lights flash on. According to the flight manual, this means we now have fifteen minutes flying time to empty tanks. By my calculation, it will take us twenty minutes to reach dry land.
I climb to five hundred feet above the sea and tell Simon to put the lights and transponder on. We are now in Cypriot Airspace and it is time for us to be seen.
I call up Search and Rescue who, I very much hope, are standing by.
“Sierra Sierra this is Golf Check.” … Silence.
After a few seconds, I try again, “Sierra Sierra this is Golf Check.” Still nothing more than a sickening silence.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” we both say almost in harmony, causing us both to laugh nervously.
“Typical fucking ‘crabs’ probably pissing it up in the Mess with Richard,” chunters Simon.
Then comes the message like manna from heaven, “Golf Golf this is Sierra. Sorry about the delay, was on the wrong radio.”
“Roger that Sierra no problem. We have thirty-four miles to run, very low on fuel and a ditching possible in ten minutes or so. We have eight souls on board,” I say.
“Roger. Airborne now. Will tuck in behind you. Good luck.”
Our fifteen minutes flying time are up. We can see the land and the airfield four miles ahead. The Search and Rescue helicopter has taken up a position in our five o’clock. Tantalisingly close. All we can do now is wait for things to go very quiet.