

Cover

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Onward and Upward

By

Tony Wilson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Tony Wilson

Licence Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover the other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

The moral right of Tony Wilson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

Discover other titles in this trilogy by Tony Wilson

Road to Recovery (1st Novel)

Above and Beyond (3rd Novel)

 https://www.smashwords.com/profile/tonywilson

www.smashwords.com/Road_to_Recovery

ISBN: 978-1-62050-095-8

Cover designed by Tony Wilson

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Table of Contents

(Click on any chapter heading to return to the Table of Contents)

Cover

Title Page

Licence Notes

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

About the Author

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Chapter 1

How long does true love last? Well in my case it now seems to be for about six months. Following the tragic death of my lovely wife Sheila in a horrendous accident just over six years ago I became indecently rich, spent nine months in various hospitals and then almost two years getting my life back together, but as I was now the ninth richest person on the planet it wasn't quite as simple as that. I inherited a dilapidated airfield (El Campo) just outside San Miguel del Mar on Spain's Mediterranean coast, engaged multitudes of staff, from ex-SAS to protect me, to my best friend Paul, who fortunately was an architect, to turn el Campo into a place worthy of kings. As well as having assassination and kidnap attempts against me I was also learning to fly, and life was starting to get quite hectic for me so I decided to go on a Caribbean cruise, where I heard about the Lady S, my new yacht 'to be'. She was not your run of the mill four berth 'Tupperware' yacht, but a Destroyer, almost complete with guns (but she still has a sting-er (or two) in her tail), and finally, almost a year after being first introduced to her, I was able to take her on a quick trip – around Africa. On the way, first we encountered pirates (and that is when I first came to the attention of the world's press) and then, on the final leg, just after we had scooted (it's a nautical term – honest) into Gibraltar, just ahead of the 'storm of storms', I got talked into taking a couple of Royal Navy Sea King helicopters back out into the raging mid-Atlantic to rescue the crew of a stricken Tanker, accompanied by a television news crew. That was when I met Sandra, their anchor 'person', and after a 'very' public introduction we became inseparable, and for the first five glorious months it seemed that we never dined at the same table twice, we were definitely the 'in couple'. From one President in the White House to the other one in the Kremlin, from Father Christmas in Lapland to a group of very friendly kangaroos in the outback (but that's another story), we were definitely the most 'sort after', 'must have' guests on the planet, any excuse, no matter how feeble seemed to inspire an invitation. I have a Dutch deckhand on the Lady S so that warranted a state banquet in Holland, and my Filipino 2nd Chef got us the best seats in the house for a firework display that must have increased the Country's gross national debt by at least 50%, but fortunately things eventually started to slow down; at that pace I wouldn't have lasted out the year. We had all the tee-shirts and videos that we could carry, and photographs by the thousand, taken with us next to just about every other person on the planet, but finally I started to sense that Sandra might just be starting to miss her former life. It was little things - like she never started to go very far without her passport – even to the loo, and every spare minute that we had 'we just had to keep up to date with the News', then it happened; the UK Parliament decided to cock-up yet another expenses exposé - big time. She went apoplectic; of course she had no intentions of leaving me - BUT if she was over there she could definitely have done a better job of 'that' interview than Adam, and she would definitely have worn a better outfit than Kay (meow), so finally we sat down to have a 'little chat', and 'little' it was, it lasted two minutes and ten seconds, and then she was on the last stage out of Dodge (in the guise of my 'big boys toy' Grumman G450). Of course we would stay in constant touch, which we did, every hour on the hour, until the G450's wheels connected with dear old Blighty, and then it was two days, then a week, and then it was time for another 'little chat'.

'We would of course remain the best of friends (and possibly with benefits)', after all Alice (my Daughter) and Algernon (her Son) were making plans for their wedding so we would meet up there (subject of course to the political situation) 'and Mr Prime Minister when are you going to resign over this expenses debacle'.

I realised of course that the last bit had not been directed at me when a very flustered PM tried to tell me all about his latest revamp of the new 'Inner City transport policy', then I heard a very unladylike 'oh sh*t' and the microphone, nee mobile phone went dead.

Was I mortified over the loss of Sandra? Of course I was, well until I had poured three very hefty Bacardi and Diet Cokes down my throat, by the way do you know that there are no calories in alcoholic drinks if you mix them with a diet mixer, the same as there are no calories in chips (French fries for our Colonial Cousins) if they are taken from someone else's plate, and there are definitely no calories in a bar of chocolate if you can eat it all in one go without closing your eyes - but I digress, as Caroline (my Director without portfolio, and the wife of my Security Director - David) poured me my fourth almost neat diet coke I started to see her point of view. After the tragic loss of Sheila I had started to enter a black hole, emotions wise, and needed something drastic to snap me out of it, and one of the many words that you can use to describe Sandra was drastic, along with devastating, and delightful, (but definitely not dainty) so, according to Caroline, she was the right woman for me, at the right time, to 'snap me out of it'. Apparently now that I had 'tested the water' I was over the worst, and after shaking off a hangover that I was deservedly going to have in the morning 'the world was going to be my oyster', and thinking of all the subtle (and not so subtle) hints that I'd had over the past couple of years I fell asleep thinking 'so many women – so little time', but Caroline was wrong, which is almost unheard of - I didn't have a hangover the next morning, in fact I awoke not thinking of hangovers, Sheila, Sandra or any other women, I awoke thinking of Hunters. I was remembering a conversation that I'd had with one of my peers a couple of months earlier, when we were looking over his airfield, when we were visiting on the other side of the pond.

\--- Those few months earlier---

_We had just done the obligatory tour of the White House that every visitor to Washington just had to do (except that our guide was the present incumbent), and all the other touristy bits and pieces in the area, and were starting to be in need of some serious R &R, so we willingly accepted an invitation to have a few days 'down time' with a new best buddy. My new BFF was a bit like me, a bit of cash to spare, liked flying, lived on an airfield, so he decided that what I needed was some serious time with 'boys toys'. Sandra was suitably distracted, and we disappeared off into a multitude of aircraft hangars. He started me off with really vintage aircraft, all string and canvas, not only looking at them - but flying them as well. Nope, they didn't tickle my fancy, so we tried out some 2_nd _World War era aircraft, large and small; better, but still not quite there. Then it was an astronomical leap in technology, and I found myself strapped into a modern two seat fighter. I had once owned a house smaller than its engines, and we flitted around the skies with our backsides on fire, (in afterburners for the non-aeronautical) but still he could see that I wasn't quite there, so after we came to a standstill outside yet another of his hangars he told me that 'I would just love his Sabre'._

No he hadn't taken up fencing; it was apparently a very shiny North American F86 Sabre, which on entering the hangar I totally ignored. Beside it was the most beautiful aircraft that I had ever clapped eyes on, and my 'gooses' started 'bumping' big time. I reverently approached this work of art, that must surely have been forged in Gods own workshop, and ran my fingertips tenderly along the leading edge of one of its sleek wings. I slowly made my way towards the cockpit and gently, so as not to disturb this sleeping beauty, climbed the ladder to peer into its fifties style interior, and it looked just about my size. My new best friend, who had been busy talking to himself for the past few minutes, saw the look on my face and told me to 'try it on for size', so I did - and it fitted absolutely perfectly. Eventually he cajoled me out of the cockpit and we slowly walked around to the rear of the aircraft, which was where I spotted something that was not quite right, ROYAL NAVY was blazoned down its side, and below its rear fuselage was a deck hook. I was almost 100% positive that the Fleet Air Arm had never operated Hawker Hunters from its aircraft carriers. Apparently I was right and wrong, they, the FAA had operated the beautiful Hunter in two forms, as the single seat GA11 ground attack fighter, and the two seat T8. Both variants had been uses solely by second line squadrons, never embarking on board an aircraft carrier, but they did sterling work in the background. Pilots honed their skills in dog fighting and ground attack in this versatile little aircraft, before they went on to the heavier and more complex Scimitars and Sea Vixens, and the two seaters were used for conversion training. Several of the T8's were even modified to train up Buccaneer and Harrier Pilots and Observers on various pieces of new technology before they were let loose on the real thing.

' _But what about the deck hook?' I asked, 'isn't that a bit of wasted hardware?'_

Apparently not, as operational fixed wing naval aircraft of old came fitted with deck hooks, Royal Naval Air Stations (airfields) had arrester wires at the end of their runways to stop any aircraft that suffered from a brake failure on touch down, from trundling off the end, as opposed to the Royal Air Force's system of nets. 'Catching the wire' caused no damage to the aircraft so it was easier to fit the GA11's and T8's with hooks, rather than equip all their runways with nets 'just in case' of a brake failure. History lesson over I died and went to heaven, well almost, I went for a trip in his T7 (the RAF version), and although it was only a two seater, it still got my juices flowing.

Later on that evening, as I was looking out over the airfield, re-living those memories, second by glorious second, Sandra came over and cuddled up beside me, and seductively asked me what I was thinking about. Instead of doing what any red blooded Englishman would have done and lied, 'thinking of page 27 of the Kama Sutra my darling', or 'just remembering that vision of loveliness as you stepped out of the shower', I told her the truth, about that lonely little Hawker Hunter sat in its darkened hangar. I think that was the beginning of the end. She flounced off, but before I could chase after her to grovel her forgiveness, mien host, and two former US Presidents collared me, the subject 'what was I going to spend my money on?' They of course had 'hidden agendas', but I naively explained that I was spending it quite well 'thank you very much' on El Campo, Lady S, various properties around the globe, and my efforts at reducing my carbon footprint.

' _Yes' they agreed, but apparently I was only spending it on 'living expenses' plus a 'small' guilt trip, I wasn't really doing 'anything' with it. That got me, I thought I was doing it spectacularly well, but apparently no, I was not, I wasn't sponsoring museums, or football teams, or sporting events, or....., but they of course had a couple of ideas for me - or rather my wallet. I looked over at the opulent dining table and thought, 'no such thing as a free lunch, even over here' then chuckled to myself, changed the subject (back to the Hunter) and after boring them for an acceptable period of time, I went off to make it up with Sandra._

\---back to reality---

That next morning, as I lay in bed with a surprisingly clear head, my thoughts were back with that lonely little Hunter, and they just wouldn't go away. In desperation I clambered out of bed and stood under a cold shower for a good ten minutes, dried myself in my new-fangled towel-less drying machine (weird - not like the real thing) but found that I was still thinking of that beautiful little aircraft. In desperation I strode out onto my own personal patio (that fortunately wasn't overlooked by anyone as I was starker's) and watched a gaggle of birds swooping around in front of me – don't they just look like Hawker Hunters? Usually, when I find myself in a situation like this, I eventually accept that my sub-conscious is trying to tell me something, so I made myself a hot 'Leche de Almendra' (Almond milk drink), which I had gotten a liking for when the hospital had started weaning me onto more conventional foods, sat down in front of my little black box, and Googled 'Hawker Hunter', just on the off chance that there might be something of interest to browse through. In seconds I was close to TMI (too much information), there were pages upon pages of it, and the most prevalent statement re-occurring was 'the most beautiful jet aircraft ever to leave the ground'; perhaps I wasn't alone in my thoughts. As I surfed the net, I was amazed at the information I could glean on this beautiful little fighter, its pedigree, development, and more importantly, just how many of them were still, or close to being airworthy, and then I made the fatal mistake - I Wikipedia'ed. Page one, photo two, sixteen black Hunters in a perfect diamond formation. I quickly copied the photo, pasted it into Photoshop, played around with it for a while, and then printed off an A4 photo of sixteen British Racing Green Hunters, which was the colour that I had finally settled on for the Lady S.

I realised that I had been browsing for more than three hours when my stomach started to grumble, so clutching the photo I decided to catch an informal lunch in the greenhouse – the staff canteen, cafeteria, or restaurant, depending on their pay grade (same food, same seats, different title, that was all). I could of course eat in my bed-sit, _I once called it that within Pauls hearing and he'd had a purple fit on the spot. 'With all his time (and my money) that he had spent on my rooms they were my 'suite', 'quarters', even 'my sleeping area', they were DEFINITELY NOT A BED-SIT – END OF STORY'._ I could also eat in my private dining room, my family dining room, or my larger formal dining room. I could eat at the 'nineteenth hole' club house, on my very own golf course, and even eat at the bar in the middle of my swimming pool, and I had innumerable number of patios and BBQ areas to choose from, but my favouritest (one of Alice's favouritest words) place to masticate was in the greenhouse. If I felt a bit lazy, or wasn't in a chatty frame of mind I would go up to the mezzanine dining area, along with my senior staff, to be waited on and 'people watch', but normally I would just 'queue jump' at the cafeteria, pick out a starter, and then take it to a table that was already occupied; I just loved chatting informally to my staff. Apparently it was a bit nerve-racking for the new comers but I learned all about their jobs around El Campo, their families and their aspirations, and I think it also kept me in touch with reality. So far no one had abused the situation and bent my ear, but I daresay it was bound to happen one day.

I was just about to step into the glass bubble that served as my personal lift when I felt a breeze around my nether regions; oops I was still starker's, so another quick shower (with real fluffy towels this time), put on some clothes, and a phone call later I walked quickly through my lift, and out onto the walkway around the atrium. After watching Caroline and Cindy lazily swimming up to the mushroom fountain and settling themselves down for a mummy/daughter cuddle (ahhh!) I walked around the glass walkway to the 'senior staff quarters'. At this moment there was only one full time resident in one of the suites, it was Marcel, my Chef. He had never taken me up on my offer of living 'off camp', in either a rather nice villa, or a luxury apartment, as befitted his station; he just didn't want to be too far away from his beloved new kitchen. The end of the corridor led out onto the mezzanine dining area, where I hoped to find two people in particular, and my timing was perfect, which was not surprising as I had just accessed Teddy's diary (he is my flying instructor) on my 'all seeing' black box, and I knew that he was always punctual, especially where his wife was concerned; 'he was definitely late at his peril, for lunch with Beryl', and Inma was just taking their orders as I arrived.

'Hi Boss, care to join us', Teddy chirped.

'It is 'Mr Michaels' to you Edward, and yes would you please care to join us Mr Michaels'.

I hadn't realised that they were coming apart, but I sat down anyway, feigning surprise at finding them there. Inma took my order; I was feeling adventurous so I went for a Spanish tuna salad starter, followed by an egg, bacon & chips combo. Marcel would of course hit the roof again, after all he, the finest Chef in Spain (he's very self-disparaging), who had the finest staff in Europe, creating gastronomic delicacies in the finest kitchen in the World, just to solely cater for the finest Patron (Boss in French) in the galaxy, and all he ever seemed to want was egg and chips, and the moron (French for moron) didn't even have the courtesy to call them French fries.

As we slowly sipped our wine and/or zero alcohol beer and waited for our starters to arrive I casually mentioned to Beryl that I had heard on the grapevine that she had been moaning to all and sundry about the crap organisation in my household, and that she thought she could do a better job herself, with one hand tied behind her back. The actual statement had been that she thought that the floral arrangements on the tables were very nice, but she felt that she could have done just a teensy bit better.

Teddy choked on his beer, and Beryl went an awful shade of white (I must stop starting conversations like this, someday someone might take me seriously) then I went on to explain, I had a vacancy for a Senior Manager in charge of table decorations; and all things horticultural, did she want the job? She could have a staff, designer greenhouses (the type that grew food, not served it) and a 'large' small holding to enable her to grow fresh food and flowers for the house. Why on earth was I bothering about potatoes and pansies when I had Hawker Hunters to think about? - I needed Teddy full time. Recently he had hinted, in our little chats as we careened around the skies in various aeroplanes that Beryl was starting to comment on how quiet the villa was without him, which was a subtle way of saying that she was getting bored, and that she was missing the kitchen garden at their cottage in the Cotswolds. In other words 'spend more time with me or we are back off to England, and so no more flying in the sunshine, for you, sunshine', so he had cut down on his flying hours, minusculey, and tried to involve her more in El Campo life, i.e. lunch in my greenhouse, but his plan didn't seem to be working very well, hence my dastardly plan that I had hastily concocted half an hour ago over a conference call with Maria (P.A.) and Eddy (ex-Clerk of Works), who was now firmly ensconced in his new position as Estate Manager. If I could just get Beryl on board then Teddy would be a pushover, and by the end of our starters Teddy was on his third zero alcohol beer and Beryl was asking where 'her' greenhouses would be situated, and if she could employ their neighbours José and Luisa.

'VICTORY' I thought, and then she twigged, 'what's the catch?'

'I want Teddy to become my full time Director of Aviation.'

'Oh you can have him' she said 'I was only getting a little bored, now that I have something to do, you can do what you like with him - when can I start?'

'Can you wait until we have had dessert?' I asked.

Teddy was just starting his second alcohol laden Guinness and third 'mind blowing' dessert when it finally sank in. 'You only have two corporate jets and half a dozen light aircraft' he reminded me, 'that hardly warrants a full time Director of Aviation'.

'You are forgetting about my squadron of fighters' I politely reminded him.

'WHAT BLOODY SQUADRON OF FIGHTERS' he spluttered, had I finally gone around the bend.

'These' I said, and turned over the photograph.

'SH*T' he said.

'Language Edward - not in front of Andrew'.

At last, someone else that will be calling me by my Christian name.

Among his many postings in the Royal Air Force, Group Captain Edward (Teddy) Heslop had had a stint with the famous Red Arrows Aerobatic Display team. He started as an ordinary team member then proceeding quickly on to flight commander and singleton (solo display specialist), and then finally going on to lead the team for two seasons, before a promotion meant that he had to leave them temporarily. Three years later he was back with them as the Team Manager, so if anybody was going to get me an aerobatic display team it was Group Captain 'Teddy' Heslop (retired).

Think about it, it's really very easy, I say 'get me a display team please Teddy', and he says 'OK, here it is' - I think not, so we went into his new office, in my vast emporium I had a couple or three offices going free, and we didn't see the light of day for about two weeks. Where the Hawker Hunter is concerned you really are spoilt for choice, so it was decisions, decisions, decisions, and what we finally settled on was that, subject to availability, the basic team would be made up of sixteen aircraft, twelve of them mark F6 single seater fighters (or GA11/ export equivalents) and four two seater T7's or T8's, with, if we could get them, one of each as spares.

Early on in our deliberations we contacted 'Hawker Hunter Repair Ltd' (HHR) who sent a couple of their design team hot foot over to assist us, and quickly we all agreed that the basic F6 airframe and the Rolls Royce Avon engine were outstanding, so no major changes there, but the radios, instruments, and various 1950's era electrics were definitely passing their sell by dates, so would inevitably be letting me down on a fairly regular basis. This led to our (my) first major decision: - inside the cockpit the flight, engine, flap, and undercarriage controls would all remain original (the bits down the sides), but the instrument panel (the bit in front) would be turned into glass. All the cluttered fifties style dials and switches would be removed (and safely stored for refitting if a future operator was a purist) and a modern day so called 'glass cockpit' would be retrofitted in its place. My pilots would have the best visual displays, the most up-to-date navigational instruments and the latest communications equipment, and it would also 'standardise' all the cockpits, ensuring that every aircraft was identical. Any pilot would be able to fly any aircraft without wondering where the 'watzit' switch was. Purists may scream blue murder but I had an obligation to provide the best possible working environment for my pilots. One of the few down sides to the Hunter as a fighter had been its limited range, so an absolute must for all my aircraft were 'Mod.228 _wet wings_ ' with its distinctive leading edge 'dog-tooth', as all my aircraft must be able to carry a full internal fuel load, plus four drop tanks when transiting, for example from El Campo to the UK. I didn't want them having to stop at every motorway services for a quick top-up.

HHR Ltd readily agreed to strip all the aircraft that I could obtain down to their component parts, have them refurbished, fit the all-moving tailplane that had been fitted to the later aircraft (if it wasn't already fitted), install the new instrument panels (and get it certified), have each aircraft resprayed inside and out and presented back to me in a guaranteed better than brand new condition, for a better than brand new price. HHR Ltd had just started making skilled fitters redundant due to the recession, now they could reverse the trend and perhaps see it out with my order, and I was definitely about to start spending some serious money, well at least Kermitt would be happy.

Where do you find sixteen assorted Hawker Hunter Mark 6, 7 and 8's, certainly not at your local second hand aircraft shop, well that was not quite true. In between major policy decisions I had a specialist team set up to start scouring the world for suitable aircraft, and within days they picked up three that were up for sale, and the world's financial crisis was yet again working in my favour. Luxury toys were now becoming an unnecessary drain on capital expenditure, or some such boring thing, so along came a few more, and then there were the gifted amateurs who had sunk all their savings into a couple of surplus aircraft and set up small display teams on a shoestring, hoping for big bucks from the display circuit. Wrong, even the big display organisers were feeling the pinch so were cutting back, and even the one off 'birthday treat' trips had all but dried up, so after making a couple of these teams 'offers that they couldn't refuse' I looked out of my bedroom window on day ten of the 'hunt for Hunters' at four single and two two-seat garishly painted aircraft parked in my front garden, the bit that was pretended it was an airfield, but then the flood turned to a trickle, and finally it looked as though we would fall short of our target, until a bright young thing on the hunting team came up with a brilliant idea. They (the hunting team) had all, almost overnight, become experts on the Hawker Hunter and all its variants, but not all the available aircraft that they had scrutinized had met with my strict criteria, but they still knew where they were, and Air museums around the world had an amount of almost flyable and non-flying (but still in reasonably good condition) F6's, but were reluctant to let them go, unless it was for silly money, so how about some wheeling and dealing, so an air museum in Australia accepted an airworthy 'low mileage F4' as a straight swop for its static display 'passed its sell by date' F6, and so it went on, and in just over three weeks I had my aircraft, including the two spares, on paper anyway. Now all I needed to do was get them to Dorset - enter the Lawyers.

That was the easy part out of the way, but early on I realised that obtaining the aircraft was only going to be the first of many steps. To operate the aircraft efficiently I would need a ready supply of spares, handling and specialist support equipment, maintenance crews, and pilots, then three seemingly insurmountable problems reared their ugly heads, drop tanks, starter cartridges and brake pads. With sixteen aircraft needing four drop tanks each, that meant that I needed a staggering sixty-four individual drop tanks at least, and we had less than half that number coming with the aircraft. Brake pads for the Hunter were as scarce as rocking horse doo doo (according to Teddy), but starter cartridges suddenly became less of a problem when one of the designers remembered that there was a modification that could be carried out on the Avon engine that enabled an electric starter to be fitted. As I was having a modern heavy duty battery fitted in all my aircraft, it would take the strain off everyday routine starts, and we could save the doo doo cartridges for air show mass start-ups, but that was tomorrow's problem; there were six Hunters parked in my garden, and it was party time.

Part of the deal with the two 'all but destitute' private display outfits was that I would first hire them lock, stock, and barrels of aviation fuel for some personal self-gratification as all the paperwork was going through. The only downside was that they had to relocate to El Campo for at least two or three weeks. It was tough but somebody had to do it. Not only did this unexpected influx of much needed cash help their cash flow situation, but they also quickly twigged that if I was purchasing sixteen airworthy aircraft, then I would almost certainly be hiring sixteen type qualified pilots to fly them, and they were just about to get a head start in the hiring stakes, then Teddy started to turn into the proverbial pain in the rectal orifice. For two days I had six very keen pilots trying to get me into an F6 (obviously trying to gain Brownie points), and all he could do was send me off on 'bumps and circuits' in one of the T8's. Admittedly on the last two trips I had been 'bumping and circuiting' with an empty seat beside me, but it was still in a two seater. He agreed with me that my logbook no longer had that brand new look about it, and I had all the necessary bits of paper to get me into a single seat jet, 'BUT I really must take it slowly, I didn't want to bend one of 'his' new aircraft now did I'. He had now used the word 'his' three times, the first time he had quickly apologised and corrected himself 'sorry 'your' aircraft', but the last two times he hadn't, and as I clambered out of the cockpit everybody but Teddy could see that I was starting to get a tad pee'd off, so one very brave soul, who was later to be rewarded, and become one of my Flight Commanders, suggested to Teddy that 'wasn't it about time he took up a single seater'. Before Teddy could say anything I totally agreed with him and headed full steam towards a purplish apparition (with green stripes) that was parked nearby. Just because it wasn't the right colour didn't mean that it wasn't a lean, mean flying machine, so after a quick walk round, waggling a few things on the way, it was time to 'kick the tyres and light the fire', and as I sat there firmly strapped in, I braced myself and thought 'now comenceth a journey that I will remember for the rest of my life' - and pressed the button – nothing.

'It must be something to do with the heat' a rather embarrassed soon to be ex-owner muttered. I checked all the switches (just in case it was finger trouble) and pressed the button again, and still nix, zilch, nada, nunca, nowt. I looked along the line of aircraft and thought 'one down, three to go' and clambered out.

Number two was a bright lemon thing with large red and blue spots all over it; I nearly gave it a miss – and quickly wished that I had. I pressed the button and the jet pipe temperature gauge needle tried to screw itself out of the instrument panel, and a quick glance in the rear view mirror showed a lance of flame streaking out of the jet pipe, and halfway across the airfield. In the nick of time I remembered that:-

(A) The ejection seat was not a zero/zero rated one (zero forward speed/ zero height).

(b) There were no cartridges in it anyway. Civilianized Hunters normally had their ejection seats de-activated, although hopefully mine wouldn't, so I didn't pull the handle, instead

(c) I closed the throttle and the low pressure fuel cut off valve.

'Viola' total silence - and not a funeral pyre in sight.

Two down, two to go, was someone trying to tell me something?

The next in line looked fairly normal, although it was covered in white on red crosses, not a good omen; it was an ex-Swiss Air force aircraft that had not yet been re-painted. Perhaps it was going to be third time lucky, but before I could do the dirty deed and press the button Teddy flounced up the ladder to 'GIVE ME' my last minute instructions, again.

' _Climb to 2,000 feet, raising the undercarriage and flaps as you go, throttle back slightly to 7,800 RPM and do a gentle left hand circuit, then undercarriage and flaps down again, and ease the aircraft gently onto the runway'. 'Taxi slowly back to the dispersal (remembering the brake pads situation), shut down the engine and then we will de-brief'._

I nodded benignly to him and he reluctantly got down, thinking as he went that they should really have a second seat in single seat aircraft, just to cover situations like this. Then the ladder was removed and I was on my own.

I sat there for a few moments savouring the moment (yet again) then pressed the button, and this time the Avon worked as advertised, just like a Swiss clock – only louder. Ground locks and chocks away, and I quickly taxied out to the end of the runway (sod the brake pads; I was paying for them after all), and yet again sat savouring the moment, then after a quick chat with Chalky in the tower it was on with the power, off with the brakes, and onwards and upwards, on the journey of a lifetime.

I remembered the bit about the flaps and undercarriage, and I even remembered to ease the throttle back slightly, and then I had serious lapse of memory. Varying neither right nor left I was quickly going in an upwardly direction, and upward, and upward. I quickly passed 2,000 feet, and then 5,000 feet. 10, 20, and 30,000 feet slid by effortlessly, and then finally it was the turn of 40,000 feet. Then I started to ease the nose and the throttle forward at the same time, and I was quickly hurtling back down towards terra firma at a forty degree angle. The altimeter quickly started to unwind, with the ASI (air speed indicator) heading in the opposite direction, and then suddenly the inevitable happened – BANG, I had finally gone solo through the sound barrier, and it was a fabulous feeling. As I was heading towards terra firma at Mach one I reluctantly eased the throttle back, and when it was safe to turn without ripping the wings off I did a quick 180 degree turn and headed for home, and as I requested permission to join the circuit and land, Chalky had a chuckle in his voice, 'I heard you had a good time Boss' but I don't think he was looking forward too much to having Teddy as his new 'Line Manager'.

As the Avon wound down and the ladder was clipped into place I reluctantly vacated the cockpit, and then spotted Teddy bearing down on me with a face like thunder, so I quickly turned my back on him, moved up to the nose of the aircraft and gave it a big fat kiss, and in a voice loud enough for him to hear I said 'thanks for a wonderful ride baby; you were worth every one of MY pennies. YOU certainly won't be going back to Blighty just yet', then I turned defiantly to face Teddy.

Swallowing hard he forced a smile on his face and asked if I had enjoyed my first flight in a Mark 6 (actually it was a Mk 58 export variant but who was arguing).

'Yes it was exhilarating' I said. 'I think I might just go up again later'.

If I'd had super vision I would have seen Chalky rolling around in his Control Tower, binoculars dangling from their neck strap, tears streaming down his cheeks and howling with laughter, perhaps he wouldn't be putting in his notice just yet.

Over the next few weeks a steady stream of aircraft started to arrive in Dorset and HHR entered into the spirit of the things with gusto, I even approved overtime and a limited night shift. I was going to keep the Swiss single seat Mk 58 and the T7 that I hadn't grown to hate, as play things until some modified ones turned up, but Teddy fortunately changed my mind, I kept them all. The two unserviceable aircraft had had relatively minor problems, which hopefully would never re-occur after the re-fits, and I also diverted a further two flyable F6's from Dorset, which meant that I had half my aircraft at El Campo, unmodified, why? Well first off you cannot have hangars full of aircraft (Teddy had purloined X and Y hangars over the other side of the golf course), without crew rooms full of pilots and maintainers to go with them. Not unless all you want them to do was sit and gather dust, so a Team Leader and four Flight Commanders were the first positions up for grabs, and as word had finally got out about a new display team that was about to be formed, I was starting to get sacks full of unsolicited mail, usually including a current C.V. and a copy of a flying log, especially after Teddy made a few surreptitious phone calls.

Paul had once told me that Councils had to advertise and hold interviews for staff positions that became vacant, even if they had already decided to promote the person that was 'temporarily' filling the post. 'Bureaucracy' and 'political correctness', meet 'union might'. Now please meet P.I. man – political incorrectness man, we scoured the C.V.s and placed each of them in one of three piles.

(1) Possible leaders, for us to deliberate over.

(2) Possible team members, for them to deliberate over, and a

(3) Not a hope in hells chance of anyone deliberating over them pile.

Although I did like the one from a young man who had nearly four hours solo, and once saw a Hunter at an air show.

What I hadn't realised was that pilots the world over, especially aerobatic pilots, were very skilled and well educated people, and usually had egos twice the size of a jumbo jet, they were certainly not backwards in coming forwards, so in pile (1) we surprisingly ended up with not only eight ex Red Arrows pilots but also three each that had flown with the Spanish and Portuguese national teams, two French ex team members, five Americans from various teams 'over there', four civilian team members, and a rather pretty looking young Russian girl. Teddy had taken one look at her enclosed photograph and placed her details straight onto pile (1), not checking the C.V., not consulting me, it was straight on the pile; perhaps the gentleman preferred blondes, I would have to have a serious word with him later. It would have been a waste of time and energy to advertise so Teddy contacted each of the twenty-six by phone, explained what we intended to do, and as this was now looking to be a serious enterprise he needed them to commit two weeks to learning to fly the Hunter, and then perform a fairly complicated formation display with the other applicants, perfect and perform a solo display, plus have stringent medicals and a lengthy interview that included a fifteen minute presentation on how they would lead the new team. All twenty-six instantly said they would be at El Campo in three weeks' time, but only seventeen required the offered first class airline tickets, the rest would be flying in, in their own aircraft – at this rate my home would soon start to look like an airfield!!!

How do you keep eight aging Hunters in the air? I don't know, but I now know a man that does. 'Topsy' Turner came with three of the Hunters, not the more garishly painted ones, the other ones. He was a Fleet Air Arm Chief Air Fitter (Airframes and Engines), later to be changed by those upstairs to Chief Air Engineering Mechanic (Mechanical) - he never did like that. God, or rather his Captain had turned him from a Leading Air Mechanic into a Petty Officer Air Fitter many years earlier, and only God would change him back. Even on his discharge papers, when he was finally put out to pasture had he put in the rank/rating box \- CAF(A/E). Topsy, his nickname had nothing to do with the fact that he was as bald as a coot, took his nice little pension (thank you very much) and went to work for Airworks Ltd, doing the same job but for more money and no uniform. Then his wife took ill and he became a full time 'carer', although when his daughter was able to lend a hand he also became a volunteer part time mechanic for a private Hunter display team at his local airport, 'just to keep his hand in'. When his wife finally succumbed to the tumour, his heart was not into going back to work for Airworks, and the display team could only offer him little more than expenses, but that was enough, he had his pension, a very generous insurance pay out, and a tidy bit left in the bank after he sold their his four bed roomed house and bought a small flat, not only was the house too large for one, but it also had too many memories in it. He quickly became an indispensable part of the team as they appreciated a first rate mechanic, and it was Topsy who had quickly sorted out the other team's 'duff' (polite word for 'knackered') aircraft out, he changed the plugs or something, and was starting to enjoy the 'bronzie, bronzie' weather (sunbathing weather to the uninitiated) at El Campo. One cloudy day, when he couldn't work on his tan he asked me if there was any chance of him having a 'jolly' in a T8. 'No problem 'Topsy', just bring your own bag', and so whilst trying to make him sick, we had a 'little chat', one thing lead to another and I made one of my on-the-spot decisions (or should that be 'in-the-air' decisions), would he like to become my Crew Chief? He willingly accepted, and from that moment on everything was to be done 'ship shape and Bristol fashion', and nautical terminology became mandatory. It's a good job that I already know my port from my starboard.

Topsy quickly got things organised (sorted), aircraft (cabs) of all shapes and sizes suddenly started to deliver contract mechanics, equipment, stores, and all the other necessary bits and pieces that were essential to keep sixteen vintage aircraft in the air, and the top floor of 'Mi Casa', the name that I had finally come up with for my new home, quickly came into use as temporary accommodation, Marcus (he had sort of come with the Airfield) was having a whale of a time. One morning I was even woken at the crack of noon by a Hercules going into reverse as it backed up to X-ray (X) hangar to deliver, among other things three Massey Ferguson tractors. They'd had special road tyres fitted as they were going to be used for towing the aircraft and the heavier bits of ground equipment around the place, not ploughing fields. The hangar floors, sorry decks, were scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed again, then when they were to Topsy's liking white lines were meticulously painted on them to denote individual aircraft bays, ground equipment bays, fire point accesses, and a wide 'clear way' for when the aircraft were being towed in and out, as unfortunately Hunters don't have the luxury of folding wings, not even the Navalised ones. Offices and workshops were equipped, and he even had a top of the range lathe installed for when a tiffy (spit) (ask a sailor if you want to know why) arrived, but his most important task of all was to get the ground crew crew-room up and running, with its coffee boat, sarnie making area (galley), and a made to measure 'uckers' board (made by his own fair hands). What may you ask is an 'uckers' board, well it looks just like standard ludo board, only it's about three feet square and built like a brick outhouse. The pieces are created by decimating a perfectly serviceable wooden broom handle, and must be capable of withstanding being flung across the room and/or slammed down on the table at regular intervals – usually every few minutes. Two oversized dice are used and when the intricacies of 'suck backs', 'blow backs' and 'mixy blobs' were mastered it quickly became the game of choice of every well deserving psychopath. I quickly grew to love – or hate it, depending if I was winning or losing, and Topsy and I soon became a formidable 'mixed doubles' (?) team.

~~~~

Chapter 2

Just after the Hercules incident Teddy received a phone call, not a particularly uncommon occurrence you may think, except that apparently it had been quite vague, and was all the more unusual because it had originated in precision Switzerland. He was just about to settle down to a rather late breakfast; after all it was Saturday, with his now perfectly happy green fingered wife, when his mobile phone sounded off (it was the dam busters tone). It was one of his contacts from when the hunt had been on for the aircraft. He, the man in Switzerland, had just had a phone call from a lady, also in Switzerland. She, the said lady, had heard from a friend (that also lived in Switzerland) that he, the first man in Switzerland that is, was looking for Hunter aircraft. Apparently her husband had recently passed away and she was now left with a crashed Hunter and some odd bits and pieces - in Switzerland. As the address was way out in the sticks he hadn't visited her yet but was he, Teddy, in Spain, still interested? 'And if Teddy were to save him a trip then he would forgo the finder's fee' (what a sucker). He, Teddy, took down the ladies address and phone number and told him, the man in Switzerland, that he would look into it and of course he would still receive his finder's fee if there was anything worth having (what a plonker), he was thinking 'brake pads', and immediately phoned Frau Englbund in Switzerland, who had just finished her breakfast and was starting to pack a suitcase.

'Yes' she still had 'all those' bits of junk but 'no' he couldn't come and have a look at them on Monday, he could come today or no day, as she was flying to America tomorrow evening. He liked the sound of 'all those' bit of junk.

This is where I come in, Teddy phoned me, and as the sun was still definitely not over the yard arm I was sound asleep (I'm positive that he still hadn't forgiven me for stealing his F6 the other day) and wondered if I would care to take a trip to Switzerland in the G450. I had never flown into a Swiss airport before and the one that he was thinking of using had an 'interesting' approach, so at eleven o'clock on the dot my Grumman smoothly lifted off with yours truly at the controls, and pointed itself in the general direction of Helvetia, that's what the Swiss call themselves on their stamps. Beside me sat Teddy, half asleep and with a blob of marmalade on his shirt, and behind me, in my hand crafted bespoke cabin (it had been specially designed for my every personal convenience) was now just plain James Wood, ex Inspector of SO1 Special Protection Branch, Inma (she also came with the airfield – she cleaned, and things) and Topsy.

After he and David had been completely exonerated following the early demise of Tweedle Dee at the OK corral, during the attempted kidnapping by my daughters girl-friend!!!, James received a reprimand from his superiors for not shooting David and Charlie stone dead. Apparently he was on a 'too lower a pay grade' to think. David and Charlie had guns in their hands; he was there to protect the Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales, so he should have shot them both dead, just like that. The fact that they, the guns, were pointing in the wrong directions, and that he 'knew' that David was a good guy was totally irrelevant. At the inquest David had dropped a subtle hint that there might always be a job as my minder waiting, if ever he decided that he wanted to work for a living, so a few days later, after he, a highly trained Police Inspector, was sent out to buy a bottle of perfume for her Ladyships impending birthday, he made a decision, and on return he placed the bottle, his warrant card and side arm in front of his Lordship, turned and walked out - with his Lordship shouting at his retreating back _'I presume you are resigning then'_. I suppose as a judge he was trained to pick up on such subtleties - James never did receive recompense for the perfume, but was now my full time minder, as David was Directoring all over the place, and Charlie was usually showing Agnetha (his girlfriend) 'something interesting' in the store cupboard.

Inma had arrived into this world as one half of a single parent family; her father had been the fly-by-night deck hand on Carlos's (my Captain of uniformed security guards) father-in-laws boat. The evening before that fateful final voyage he had finally convinced a rather pretty, if not slightly gullible local girl that 'this next trip could very well be my last, if something terrible happened - and I am still a virgin'. That line usually worked, and this time was no exception - except that it came to pass that the first part became true, even if the second part wasn't, and nine months later _Inmaculada de Concepción De Silva Ennamora_ (thankfully Inma for short) arrived in San Miguel del Mar, but nobody believed her mother when she named her, she was just one half of an 'easy' family, but over the years the villagers slowly started to respect them both as her mother slaved away at every cleaning job that came to hand, no job was too small or too dirty. It wasn't uncommon for her to have the thankless job of cleaning the front entrances of over a dozen apartment blocks at the same time, as well as holding down a full time factory job, and doing each one cheerfully. Inma was a bright young thing at school, but when the opportunity arose for her to go on to college she had to turn it down, it was time for her to start helping her mother bring in the bread full time, not just holidays. Her first job was at one of the local Hotels as a chambermaid and she loved it, meeting all those new people from far flung places, then disaster struck, San Miguel del Mar was on the decline so the Hotel closed. She then took over some of her mother's more strenuous jobs as she (her mother that is) wasn't getting any younger, and picked up a new one of her own, as part time office cleaner for the security firm that was looking after the old airfield, and when Thomas (a Brummy security guard/ex-teacher) started teaching his colleagues English she joined in with a vengeance, and so when Mr Michaels moved into his temporary accommodation on the airfield, Inma quickly volunteered her services as cleaner, and suddenly found herself permanently employed as a maid. Yet again she was over the moon, and as a 'founder member' of Mr Michaels happy band she found that she had some rather nice perks, like looking after him when he went off in the Grumman at short notice, and she had been the first one to take up 'El Jefé's' (the Boss's) offer of free flying lessons for anyone working for him when that nice 'Teddy Bear' joined them, and she quite often got some quality 'stick' time on these trips as well.

Topsy was not a happy little bunny about coming along at first, he had much too much work to do at El Campo, even on a Saturday, but he was a natural manager and so quickly delegated. Grabbing his passport and an overnight bag - just in case (he had spent too long on MARTSU to fall for that one) and was now reclining in the sumptuous swivel rocker - he could definitely quickly become accustomed to this life.

Once we were on a steady heading I vacated the hot seat and let Inma take over, and as I stood in the galley dunking my pyramid into a mug of boiling water (I'm very fussy about how I take my tea), after first emptying two sachets of instant Cappuccino into my maids mug, and retrieving a chilled Perrier from the fridge for Teddy, I looked at my Crew Chief twirling in my favourite armchair, and my body guard snoring quietly on my settee, and thought 'there is definitely something very wrong with this picture', thank god it's only a short flight, I won't have time to get the Hoover out. Just before I could at least get a duster out it was time for me to take my place 'upfront' again, and as I settled into the still warm seat I looked out of the cockpit at the airfield that Teddy was pointing to, I had seen larger window boxes. I gulped and turned to Inma, 'have I got any brown trousers on board?'

'Roit sorry aar kid, yuz spare trazis r back yam'. 'Aah kid' apparently is Brummyeese for Boss.

I took one more look at that insignificant little blot on the Swiss landscape, tightened my seat straps, closed my eyes, and pushed the stick forward. When we came to a stop, inches from the foot of the appropriate mountain I opened them again, twisted the nose wheel steering knob, blipped the port engine (see I'm learning) and taxied smartly to arrivals; I hadn't needed those extra trousers after all.

The local heavies that David had organised for us had two black 'stretch' Hummers waiting for us, complete with tinted windows and snow chains. Now that worried me, the snow chains bit at least, thank god I hadn't come in shorts and flip flops: apparently we were going above the snowline.

As we slid to a standstill in front of a very strange looking house Teddy commented on the fact that they didn't seem to have many hangars in this residential area, and Topsy didn't go much on the architecture, and they both had very valid points. The house in front of us seemed to have your average very picturesque three up, three down sort of Swiss chalets at either end, with a small block of council flats interconnecting them, very strange. We made our way up to a very unimposing door in the middle of the flats and were greeted by a very rotund, if not slightly henpecked looking woman. My 'E' grade 'A Level' result in French bears testament to my linguistic skills so Teddy, who apparently was an ardent skier in his spare time and could 'speak the lingo like a native' took the lead, as this must be Frau Englbund.

'Please call me Frau Englbund, you must be the people coming to see about the junk, please hurry up I still haven't finished packing yet, and don't bring any snow into the house', then she looked at me, half smiled and said 'I've seen you on the television, you may call me Heidi'.

Plan 'B', use English.

'You didn't say you could speak English' Teddy moaned, having struggled through a painful conversation with her over the phone a few hours earlier.

'You didn't ask' she snapped, and disappeared inside, I was already starting to like her.

I followed Teddy through the front door, kicking the snow that had deigned to adhere to my Gucci's off on the way across the snow porch, through another door, and into his back. He had stopped dead in his tracks. I looked over his shoulder and straight down the barrels of four 30mm Aden cannons, and attached to the cannons was a gleaming F58 Hunter, and it looked in absolute pristine condition. If the road outside had been long enough I would have quite happily gotten into it and flown it home. As I looked around it was obvious that originally there had just been the two chalets, but then a concrete slab had been laid in the gap between them, the Hunter had then been placed on it and the interconnecting part of the structure built around it. The gleaming F58 stood in centrally heated comfort, and was surrounded by an Aladdin's cave of spare parts, and looking out of a rear window I saw that there were three very large store rooms in the huge garden, and I suspected that we would find yet more treasures out there, I just had to find out all about this beautiful aircraft.

Heidi finally took us into her cosy little lounge in one of the original chalets after I had promised her faithfully to personally fly her to America in the G450 if she missed her flight, to fill us in on the Hunters history.

'What's a G450?' she said, took one look at a photograph of a G450 on Teddy's proffered laptop, and promptly went on a go slow – packing wise.

\---------------------

Her husband had been a very senior Aircraft Maintenance Officer in the Swiss Air Force, and he had spent virtually all his Air Force career on Hunter Squadrons, helping to keep, according to him, 'the finest aircraft in the world' airworthy. Then along came large black clouds in the shape of shiny new F/A-18 Hornet's, and as they started at arrive, to replace the venerable Hunter, procedures started to change. One afternoon a new pilot had a problem with his Hunters landing gear and its right undercarriage collapsed. As the aircraft slid to a graceful halt on the runway its right wing and tail unit were damaged, but instead of sending the aircraft to the maintenance unit for repair, the airfields Senior Aircraft Maintenance Officer (SAMO for short) took one quick look at it, assessed it as 'beyond economic repair' and declared it scrap.

Hubby despaired at this travesty of justice and persuaded the SAMO to let him have it to train new mechanics on. 'Good idea', came the reply, so he was awarded 10 brownie points and it was loaded onto a trailer and deposited unceremoniously in an empty hanger.

Three weeks later a refuelling bowser found a patch of black ice and slid gracefully into another F58 (everything concerning the Hunter is graceful), impacting at the join between the left hand side of the cockpit and the left intake/wing, as the Swiss Navy didn't have shares in the Hunter it was still 'left', and not 'port'. Come to think of it they didn't have shares in anything else either - Switzerland is a land locked Country. It looked nasty, what with instruments dangling from the carnage, and its engine seized up solid, so the same thing happened again, the SAMO took one look at it, assessed it, declared it scrap, hubby asked for it, was given 10 more brownie points and it was quickly towed to the once empty hangar, alongside his first acquisition, and it didn't take hubby long to work out that between the two wrecks lurked a whole aircraft just craving to burst forth, so the first project for some wannabee maintenance supervisors and the next intake of trainee mechanics, under his personal supervision of course, was to turn the two into one and a half. Over time the work was completed and there stood one 'as new' hybrid F58 (and one very sick one). He was as proud as punch for what his men had achieved, but no one else on the airfield cared a jot, the new F/A-18's were arriving in force and the Hunters were quickly becoming relics of the past. As the stores department needed more room for the F/A-18's spares anything with a Hunter reference number on it was deposited unceremoniously in the 'getting quite full' hangar. Spare engines, ejection seats, _drop tanks_ , maintenance manuals (unfortunately most of them were in English so they had never been used) and hundreds of boxes of various shapes and sizes. The Hunters weren't the only things getting close to retirement, so was Hubby, and he wasn't much looking forward to working on those noisy new machines, and then a series of unrelated events came together quite nicely for him.

First his favourite Uncle passed away and left him a tidy bit of money and a nice chalet up in the mountains. He visited it and found that the chalet next door was up for sale at a reduced price for a quick sale, and the space between the two would comfortably take a Hunter. He offered the asking price for the ridiculously under-priced chalet, and it was snapped up immediately. The vendor, who was a builder, even threw in a concrete base between the two properties as a 'thank you'.

Returning to the base he quite openly put in a request to purchase 'Hulk 112', as his new hybrid fighter was now legally called. As he had sufficient brownie points they practically gave it to him 'just as long as he got it off the Airfield at his own expense', no one even bothered to go and have a look at it.

He then visited the stores department, where two Stores Officers were off sick and the third was covering for them, as well as doing his own jobs; one of which was assessing surplus and redundant stock. After finding that quite a few of the labels had fallen off the boxes in hubby's hangar the vastly overworked Stores Officer quickly devised a fool proof system of assessing the price of the surplus stock. Measure the length of the box/crate/item and multiply it by 'x' Francs, swings and roundabouts he said, thus hubby became the proud owner of things like a box of 24 not so practical sets of aircraft foul weather blanks for the same price as two completely refurbished undercarriage assemblies. As 'x' was so low both box's combined came to the same total as the bill for his and his wife's recent anniversary dinner; and two brand new Rolls Royce Avon jet engines that were still in their delivery 'cocoons' cost him the equivalent of a new outboard motor each.

The next thing to fall into place was a new batch of Mechanics and Supervisors, so using 'his' own equipment the new team took off the wings, lifted the aircraft, retracted its undercarriage and gently loaded it onto his 'never been used before' road transportation cradle, and the wings were slotted into their very own padded cradles. They then sealed them all up against inclement weather and successfully passed that part of their training.

Next SAMO sent him a memo 'did he want Hulk 113?' 'No thank you very much sir', everything of any interest to him had been stripped from it long ago and legitimately purchased by him through the overworked Stores Officer, and so without leaving his office SAMO assigned Hulk 113 to the crusher. Hulk 112 had been used as a 'test piece' for a new batch of trainee aircraft paint sprayers and the different aircraft serial numbers, on the different parts of the aircraft had been 'standardised', so quite unintentionally any reference to the other 'cannibalised' aircraft was obliterated.

The final piece to slip into place was that the Commanding Officer of the base summonsed him to his office of a 'quiet chat'. 'As he (hubby) was getting fairly close to retirement it was just not going to be cost effective for the Air Force to send him to America to retrain on the F/A-18's, would he consider early retirement'?

'Too right sunshine (or words to that effect), but what about all my bits and pieces in the old hangar?'

'Oh you can have the hangar rent free for a year, consider it part of your severance package, just switch out the lights and leave the keys at the Main Gate when you have finished with it'.

With plenty of time on his hands he had the firm that had taken Hulk 113 to the crusher, deliver Hulk 112 to its new concrete base between his two chalets, and they didn't even bill him for the move as they thought it was just another part of their contract with the Air Force, and a new class of mechanics were persuaded to have an 'adventure training' weekend at his new home, with the promise of all the food that they could eat, and once the Hunter was out of its cradle, the wings were back on, and the whole aircraft temporarily covered, all the beer that they could drink as well.

Eventually the interconnecting building was carefully constructed around his beloved aeroplane, and he reverently uncovered it, and spent the rest of his days (which unfortunately weren't that many) cleaning and servicing it as if it was still an operational aircraft, and cataloguing all his spares, by name, reference number, quantity, location, and invoice number on his battered old computer, and the last thing that he thought of, as he sat quietly in the cockpit, before he had his coronary was 'I really must get around to removing those 30mm cannon shells from the gun pack'.

\---------------------

After some frantic phone calls Teddy started tapping away on the late Hubby's steam driven computer, Topsy started clambering over the piles of treasure-trove, James started making himself comfortable in a convenient ejection seat, and Inma disappeared out of the front door with Heidi and my bit of plastic for a trip to the local designer supermarket. We had decided to spend the night there; 'there are plenty of spare beds' Heidi had assured us, as we were definitely 'time limited', and neither Teddy, Topsy nor I wanted to leave, just in case someone else sneaked in and grabbed all the goodies.

As I wandered around the room looking at all the artefacts I realised that the only non-aircraft thing in the entire room was an old black and white photo above the door. We had been greeted by a younger version of that face when we arrived so it was safe to say that this had to be his wife's mother, but why was it in hubby's play room?, then I had an idea. Clambering into the cockpit I flicked on the battery, switched on the gyro gun sight and looked through it. Yes I was right; I was looking at a spot just between his mother-in law's eyes, so I curled my finger around the trigger and thought 'one quick squeeze', then Teddy gave a whoop of joy. Blast I thought, perhaps another day, and vacated the cockpit and wandered over to him.

He pointed to the screen and highlighted was _BRAKE PADS - Part Number - H/6537684 - Store Room C - Bay 3 - 1 box_. His initial joy was now tempered after seeing that the quantity was only _1 box,_ but 'beggars can't be chooses' I thought, and anyway I fancied a breath of fresh air so I jotted the details down, woke James (I'm sure he could sleep on a clothes line), took the key to ' **Store C** ' from the keyboard by the rear door, and we made our way outside into the snow. **Store Room C** was stencilled above the door of the smaller of the rooms, and as I unlocked the door and swung it open I was hit by a waft of hot air, apparently the 'stores' were temperature controlled as well. The store looked large from the outside, but inside it was cavernous, and James quickly found the switch, the lights flickered on - and hundreds of boxes stared back at me. We made our way to **Bay 3** , which was clearly stencilled on the floor, and I placed the message pad down on a handy crate, and then we waded through the boxes that were stacked behind the crate, but no luck, no matching part number could we find, not even something close, so we decided that Herr Hubby had been fallible after all and had misplaced it. Never mind, perhaps we would find it one day; after all I still had a fabulous collection of goodies to scour through, and James had almost been totally underwhelmed by the whole experience. As we turned to leave I lifted the message pad off the crate and there it was _P/N - H/6537684_ , the number that had so recently become etched in my brain, it wasn't a box, it was a bloody great crate. Out came my phone, #5, and ' **Teddy, both of you get your backsides out here, NOW** ', and closed the connection. Seconds later they careered into the store, expecting to find carnage, or at least mayhem, but all they found was me - open mouthed. I pointed to the number on the message pad, and then at the Part number on the crate, and Topsy kissed it, then went in search of a crow-bar. Inside it were hundreds of boxes of individual set of pads, and all of them were perfectly preserved. Obviously this had been one of the last stores requisitions that the Air Force had made before the decision had been taken to replace their fleet of Hunters. They must have been running low, so had ordered what must been at least five years' worth of replacement pads for them, lucky old me.

As the afternoon progressed things got quite busy for us, and my minders were more than happy to let us get on with it, apparently their firms mobile site office had arrived so they were snug as bugs in a rug outside. When Inma returned laden down with shopping she placed the receipt and my card on the desk and whispered to me that whilst chatting to Frau Englbund, she had mentioned to her on several occasions that she was not very happy about spending the remainder of her time on this planet 'living in a mausoleum, in this god forsaken backwater', she much preferred ' _people watching_ ' from under the arcades around Berne. 'She didn't know if this bit of information was of any use, but hoped that it might be'. It was brilliant news, Topsy and I had been trying to work out how to get the Hunter out. He had done a stint on MARTSU at HMS Daedalus, Lee-on-the-Solent, in Hampshire; and in the not so distant past it had been the Royal Navy's specialist **M** obile **A** ircraft **R** epair, **T** ransport and **S** alvage **U** nit. Half the unit had been 'Tiffies' (spit) that would go off and carry out complicated repairs to an aircraft for a squadron, and the other half worked for a living. They specialised in the transportation of aircraft (of all three services) by road (lorry), sea (in a freighters hold) or air (inside a cargo plane or under a helicopter). It didn't matter if they were in one piece or had 'arrived' on terra firma in several bits (crashed), they prided themselves in delivering them to wherever they had to go, in the same condition as they were in when they arrived 'on site' to pick them up. It could be in the middle of a field, a nice warm hangar, or Fort William car park, it didn't matter, 'have lorry (and cranes, and motorbikes for escorts) will travel'. There was no way that we (and again I use that term very loosely) could safely dismantle the building and take the aircraft out the front way, anyway new buildings and roundabouts had been built in the ensuing years and Topsy doubted that a 'Queen Mary' (specialist aircraft transportation trailer) could make it safely up here, but 'out back' was a totally different kettle of fish. With some judicious prodding and poking we deducted that the part of the rear wall just behind the Hunter may have been designed to be removed, allowing the Hunter to be pushed outside, and also that the sheds had been positioned wide enough apart to allow her to squeeze between them. Topsy reckoned that it would then take him about 10 minutes to ease the rear fence out of the way, using a chain saw, and then it was out into a meadow that was straight out of the 'Sound of Music', then 'perhaps we could airlift it out' he suggested.

It sounded like a good idea to me, although I must admit that I was starting to get just a tad bit worried when Topsy informed me, as we were heavy into discussed the intricacies of the operation that one of his favourite sayings was _'If it won't go, don't force it – hit it with a bigger hammer_ , the other one apparently was _'if all else fails – read the instructions'_.

It became obvious to me that a lot of people were beavering away in the background supporting my merry little band when a couple of Solicitors suddenly arrived out of nowhere. I grabbed the friendliest looking one and went to find Heidi. She agreed that she didn't much care for her home/hangar, she was really a City bird at heart, so she readily agreed in principle (and in writing) that I could not only have the aircraft and all the spares, but that I could purchase her home/s as well. That way it didn't really matter if Topsy had to adjust part of it while 'easing' the aircraft out, either with his chain saw or a sledgehammer. I gave a written undertaking to have everything independently verified and valued, but Teddy had given me a very 'off the cuff' figure of what the aircraft and the bits and pieces that he had seen so far were roughly worth, so when I told her that the final total would be at least 'X' francs (with a lot of zero's) (and most likely a lot more), she slid gracefully under the table in a dead faint. We revived her and then I mercilessly continued, 'and that does not include 'top dollar' for your home'. This time she didn't faint, she grabbed the phone and postponed indefinitely her flight to America, after all she was only going over there to see her children, grandchildren and great grandchild - there was serious house hunting to do over here. 'And 'no' she did not want to go and live in America, the kids might want her to babysit, she was definitely way too old for that sort of nonsense'. The property agents were most likely all shut by now, she moaned 'but she couldn't wait until they opened up on Monday'.

'Shall I see if my staff at El Campo can speed things up?' I asked. Speed things up, she was off viewing six furnished apartments at two o'clock the next morning **.**

All was going spectacularly well; we opened up the other store rooms and found enough drop tanks to equip all my aircraft and a huge amount of special tools, ground equipment and specialist slings. The first thing that Topsy insisted on was that all the aircraft slings were to be sent off for testing, and so as the sun started to set over a nearby mountain a helicopter whisked them all off to the hastily re-opened testing house. Hopefully they would be back, complete with their certificates by Tuesday, but it was nearly a moot point, Herr Bloken....., Herr Blicken......, Herr Bloodngutts arrived. He was from Customs (with a capital C), and didn't we just know it. It was his Saturday off, he had been dragged 'off piste' and so his new purpose in life was to make my life a misery. There was absolutely no way on Gods little green (or white in winter) earth that I was going to get even a box of hair grips out of Switzerland if he had anything to do with it, so he made himself comfortable in front of the antiquated computer and exclaimed 'oh good, I have one just like this in the office'. Why did I not doubt him in the slightest? And as we all sat around watching him, first he sorted all the items on the computer out chronologically, then alphabetically, then numerically and finally by date of invoice, he liked that; I think it must have looked prettier. Then he sorted out the invoices; fortunately he settled for 'date order' as well, that saved us at least an hour.

Item one on the computer _HAWKER HUNTER F58 (complete) - Reference number - Hulk 112 - Room 1._ 'Where is room one?' He demanded.

'You are sat in it' I snapped, just controlling myself enough to refrain from grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, dragging him out of his seat and ramming his nose into the side of the aircraft that was parked right in front of him, I might have dented it, and so he slowly got up and walked around it (twice), noting all the planes serial numbers in his note book, then eased himself back down and laboriously wrote about half a page in another note book, and then placed the invoice to one side with a sneering 'the reference numbers don't tally'. It was going to be a long night. As he slowly continued his ministrations Inma and Heidi tried to ease the situation by bringing in a pile of bacon butties. 'None for me thank you' he muttered, head down in a pile of invoices, 'I have brought my own sandwiches' (with his winning personality he most likely automatically assumed that they were seasoned with strychnine).

'Good job' I thought, 'I wasn't going to offer you one anyway'.

Halfway through my second butty, this one with brown sauce on it, I made up my mind to return to El Campo, but before I could put thoughts into words the front door burst open and my local minders poured in, formed up on either side of the entrance and then stood rigidly to attention. The leader of the crew was physically shaking, and a 'suit' walked smartly in. You can tell a lot from a man's suit, and this one told me that this one was only his owner's work-a-day suit, but it was still twice as good as my Sunday best. The owner of the suit walked up to me, shook my hand and politely informed me that the 'President of the Federation' had asked him personally to officially welcome me to Switzerland on his behalf, and then strolled over to Herr Bloodngutts and 'reamed him another rectal orifice', Topsy's words not mine. As neither one of us could understand a word that was being said in the very one-sided conversation I let the tone generate a mental picture: and Topsy's description seemed pretty accurate to me. On completion 'the suit' then came and bade me farewell, safe journey home (did he know something about that postage stamp airfield?) and hoped to have the pleasure of meeting me again soon, but perhaps in grander surroundings, and then, as we shook hands prior to his departure, his chauffer darted in and took a photograph, obviously the 'suit' had a vacant space on his mantelpiece. The whole episode had taken less than ten minutes.

As I watched the back of 'the suit' stride out of the door, I casually turned to Teddy and whispered 'the money must have arrived then'. It is surprising what reaction you get when you deposit a couple of billion Euros in the right bank, especially when there is a 'post it' note stuck on top of them saying 'these will stay here for at least five years 'if' me and my new 'personal' aeroplane, and all the bits and bobs that go with it are out of your Country within a week'. It took us five days.

Herr Bloodngutts collected up all the invoices, removed a seal from his briefcase and started stamping and signing away as though his life depended upon it, and from the tone of the conversation that I had just witnessed I wouldn't have been surprised if it, or at the very least, his career had. Half an hour later he was finished and he, his untouched sandwiches, and briefcase scurried out of the door, to the accompaniment of profuse apologies about the 'terrible misunderstanding', and Teddy walked over to the desk and picked up the last receipt to be stamped, signed and cleared for export, and showed it to me, it was Inma's supermarket receipt. I could now legally export my bacon butty; too late - it was stowing away in my stomach. That would definitely be framed and end up on my mantelpiece.

Later that evening I sat in the cockpit of my new 'best friend' and had a long chat with her. We agreed that her little mishaps had been 'preordained destiny, designed in the greater scheme of things to bring us together', so we conveniently put them to one side. She then promised to look after me, if I looked after her, and a deal was struck, and I then thought that that was enough of the Bacardi and full fat cokes (sod the calories). What was the reason for my stiff B & C's, there was absolutely no way that I was going to fly the G450 off that postage stamp that the Swiss called an airfield. The landing had been bad enough, so I was determined to make sure this evening that there was not going to be enough blood left in my alcohol system to permit me to take the controls the following day...... so the next morning I left Topsy and a growing number of helpers early, I nearly said 'bright and early' but that would have been a downright lie, but promised to be back when 'my' aircraft was ready to move out into the wild blue yonder.

Early Wednesday morning a large helicopter wheezed its way up the mountain and deposited James, Teddy and I ignominiously in the meadow, it was at the limit of its performance so how on earth was the lift ever going to take place later on? Everything had been removed from the stores and 'hangar' and transported to the airport for onward shipment, trouble free of course, and Heidi had spent her first night in her new penthouse apartment that overlooked her favourite arcade. It's surprising how quick property vendors can move when the hint of a 'suit' is standing over them, and the end wall had been slid aside on its concealed runners to enable 'my' aircraft to be pushed outside. Topsy had even had his wish and removed the fence 'his way'.

The previous day Topsy had gone out 'scrounging' and found a supplier of steel 'I' beams which when lain on their sides in front of each wheel made a perfect track to stop the wheels from sinking into the soft snow. He even designed 'fishplates' which easily fitted over the ends of the beams to interlock them, stopping one end of a beam flying up in the air when a wheel reached the other end, very 'lateral thinking I'm sure', but I bet it was a 'tiff' (spit) that manufactured them, but finally everything was ready. First my 'cab' was spun round, and then she was pushed carefully out of her home, she was not going to enter the world '*rse first' Topsy declared. A Sno-Cat then towed her along the tracking and an hour ahead of schedule my beautiful new toy sat quietly in the middle of the meadow awaiting Julie Andrews; (sorry I just couldn't resist that) her ride out of there.

Half an hour later what sounded like a cement mixer full of scrap iron being dragged sideways over cobble stones quickly came into view. I was wrong, it was a machine created in a scrap yard by an eccentric engineer, and made to look like an upside down four poster bed. As it came closer I realised that it was in fact one of Russia's world beating 'sky cranes', Topsy had picked up the telephone on Saturday evening, dialled yellow pages and asked for 'Russian sky canes please'. After a quick chat with the pilot (English is the language of the skies) it was decided that he would prepare the Hunter for its short flight to my little Swiss airfield, but 'no' he didn't need to take the wings off, weight would not be a problem, even at this altitude, and it was agreed that the helicopter would arrive at eleven o'clock, the pilot would then assess the situation, under-sling the load (my baby was now being called a 'load', humf) and then there would be test flights to check the aerodynamic stability of the said load, and only when the pilot was absolutely satisfied then 'it' would then be flown to the requisite airfield. She should be on her way by three o'clock Topsy confidently stated (with his fingers crossed behind his back). The helicopter, and I use that word very loosely, circled once (that was the 'assessing' part out of the way) came to the hover above my baby, and totally ignoring all Topsy's marshalling signals lowered itself around her. As my beloved sat there, her nose sticking forlornly out from between this praying mantis's front legs, her wings poking out at the sides, and her tail disappearing into the shadow cast by this monster it looked as if I would never see my beauty again, and then a hook slowly descended to just above the recently certified sling. Topsy was given a 'leg up' and quickly slipped the slings shackle onto the hook and then vacated the vicinity. As we all stood and watched in awe the Hunter was plucked smoothly off the ground, but the helicopter never moved. Steadying lines were quickly attached to her by a crewman and then finally the monster rose effortlessly into the air; I doubted if it even noticed my new beloved underneath it. That was the slinging part of the exercise over with. The Sky Crane flew off for a few hundred meters, circled once, did a figure of eight and then came back and gently touched down, and my Hunter was lowered to within a foot of the ground, it wasn't looking good. Topsy strolled over, he would normally have ducked and darted in but it was really a waste of energy what with the thrashing blades so high above him, and plugged his 'electric hat' into a convenient inter-com jack on one of the trellis-work legs. A minute later he was back, 'the Pilot would like the undercarriage retracted, the nose cover removed and twenty-five kilo's placed in the jet pipe'. James was sent off to find a suitable 'twenty-five kilos', the cockpit cover was slid off, and a ladder was clipped onto the side of the fuselage. Topsy connected the battery, the hood was slid back and I gingerly climbed up the ladder as my only true love swayed gently in the breeze - of the down wash. I reached in, switched on the battery master switch, and selected 'up' undercarriage. Absolutely nothing happened until Topsy started wa pumping away on the hydraulic systems hand pump. First the three green lights turned red (under carriage unlocked and unsafe), and then after three 'clunks' the lights, one at a time, went out, the undercarriage and associated doors were now up and locked. I quickly fell off the ladder (my heart's desire was of course suspended in mid-air, and the length of my legs had not been adjusted accordingly) and it was removed, the hood was closed, the battery disconnected, and a sack of potatoes was wrapped in the cockpit cover and stuffed unceremoniously into the jet pipe. 'How heavy is twenty-five kilos?' James asked Topsy as he handed him the bag of tatties. 'Don't know, never did the metrification course, but this looks about right'. Again we all stood back, and after the love of my life was again raised up, and the steadying ropes tightened, the helicopter yet again took to the air, but after one quick circuit it was back on the ground.

'Problems, problems, problems,' Topsy muttered as he wandered back up to his favourite undercarriage leg. He had a few more words with the pilot and was out again, with a look of absolute amazement on his face. 'The pilot says the load is OK now, and it seems such a pity to go so few kilometres after so much trouble (?), would I like them to take her straight to England'. HHR were already collecting another aircraft for me, so they wouldn't be arriving at my tiny airfield for at least four days, then the wings would have to come off and the whole lot transported by road and ferry, so 'Yes please' I said, and with a quick nod from Topsy the monstrosity, with my precious under it, lifted off and headed down the mountain - ten minutes before it was due to arrive. 'Do they know the delivery address' I asked Topsy'.

'Don't know', he absentmindedly muttered 'but I suspect it ( _IT_ ) will get there safe and sound'.

As we walked back towards the empty house Topsy asked me what I would be doing with it.

'I don't know, but now that you have decimated the fence I suppose I will have to have the rest of it knocked down as well'.

At that Teddy chipped in 'it would be a nice place to have a ski lodge'.

'Whilst you are in my employ my boy you won't have time for that sort of nonsense', I still hadn't fully forgiven him, and as we continued on towards it, I thought of my beautiful little butterfly battling gallantly onward under that nasty machine, without a driver and open to the elements, given half a chance I would have stowed away on board (my, my, aren't we getting all nautical) just to keep her company - as Topsy daydreamed about brake pads, and Teddy mentally designed 'his' perfect lodge.

Three days later I stood on a wet and windy hard standing in Dorset, watching the clackety clacker machine appear out of the mist. It had had to go the 'pretty' way to England - 'you are not flying that thing over my City' etc, plus they 'had' to stop at every service area to top up, and for the occasional drop of 'shut eye'. After lowering her beautifully sculptured undercarriage legs, 'it' lowered my soot covered light of my life gently to the ground, and as the hook was swiftly disconnected, the Airport Manager, who was standing soaked to the skin beside me (never blindly believe the weather forecast, just look out of the window) started to speculate on how many world records must have been shattered this trip, especially as the last part of it had been carried out 'solo'. Apparently at the first pit stop this side of the English Channel the co-pilot and crewmen had all grabbed their bags and disappeared, shouting 'asylum, council house, leather jacket and taxi please'. I was amazed, one man controlling this leviathan - he must be superhuman. As the monster gently lifted off from around my baby (she looked awfully small and dejected after her terrible ordeal with that nasty machine) it slid smoothly sideways and settled back down and started to shut down. I just had to wait and shake hands with this giant among men, and after the machine had finally entered the state of utter silence, and I could start to think clearly again, my first thought was 'the Airport Manager lied to me, he wasn't alone, the pilot had had his young daughter along for the ride'. She clambered nimbly down the spiders legs, as only a fit young teenager can do, ran spritely across to me and shook my hand (???).

'Mr Michaels, how nice to meet you a week early'.

'A week early?' I asked. The only thing that I had on next week was the start of the Team Leader and Flight Commanders interviews, and then it dawned on me - 'Natasha Shladakoff?'

She smiled, touched the tip of her chin with an index finger and gave a cute curtsy. 'The one and only' she replied.

I had asked Teddy to explain why he had placed this young woman; she was in fact twenty nine years old, on the pile.

His only comment was 'after she gave a solo display in a Mig 29 at Farnborough three years ago they considered rewriting the books on 'The Theory of Flight', that was good enough for me.

'Will you be waiting for a replacement crew to arrive before you leave, or take a British one with you' I asked.

'Neither' she replied, 'a new Russian crew would only claim asylum when they arrived in England, and a British crew would most likely be shot as spies when we arrived in Russia, I will fly it back myself; after all I have my automatic pilot', and reaching down into a bulging pocket of her flight suit she pulled out a bunch of 'bungee rubbers', the type that hold suitcases down on a car roof rack. 'The red and green ones are for the cyclic stick, the blue one is for the collective stick and the green one is for the rudder pedals.

'Oh yes' I said, feigning shock, 'and what's the purple one for?'

'For when I go to the toilet, the door lock is broken'.

I had certainly met my match in the humour stakes I thought, and as she went off to supervise the re-fuelling I turned to Teddy, 'I wonder what those bungees are really for?'

'Most likely her auto-pilot' he said with a straight face 'you've never flown a Russian aircraft have you'.

~~~~

Chapter 3

The next day, on my list of 'things to do' was 'Air Engineer Officer', I needed one to set up and run the maintenance side of things, and we had quickly whittled the fairly short list of three, down to a 'short list' of three. In the preamble that Maria had sent out it was explained that they would be doing most of the talking at the interview. They would have one hour, maximum, to explain what other specialist Officers they would need, how many Supervisors (and of what trades), and how many maintainers they required. Then they had to lay out a maintenance plan for keeping sixteen, sorry seventeen Hunters serviceable and available for at least eight air shows in the first season, and most likely considerably more thereafter, and finally what background support did they envisage that they would need.

The first one in was Swiss, ex Swiss Air Force. He had a hooked nose, beady eyes and looked at me as though he had just found me on the bottom of his shoe; it was nothing personal, I think he looked at everybody like that. Then the interview started to go downhill. First he opened his mouth, big mistake, and then he started speaking. He had never worked on Hunters before, but he told us that a good Officer didn't need to know anything about the pieces of machinery under his control, that is what he had his under-Officers for. _Then why do we need you, you dillywhat! (and please don't call my aircraft 'machinery', they are very sensitive)._ He would need at least five additional Officers, an Airframes specialist (German, they were the best), an Engine specialist (American, they were the best), an Electrical specialist (either Dutch or Norwegian, there was not much to choose between them), and an Instruments specialist (of course he had to be Swiss), he? Supervisors would of course be supervised closely by the Officers, and the mechanics would call all Officers and Supervisors 'Sir'. _I'm sure that was really important - I think not._ Then he laid out his master plan for the servicing, Eisenhower's plan for the D day landings had to have been simpler, and finally he needed a fully trained workshop staff to maintain all the equipment, but I wouldn't need to get a crash tender, with him in charge of servicing no aircraft would dare to crash.

The second one must have been a distant relative of the first one (I really do pick them!!!). She had never 'actually' worked on Hunters, but she imagined they would be quite simple, mechanics wise, after the RAF Galaxy's and Tri Stars that she had in her repertoire. The Officers that she would require were (1) Airframe (2) Propulsion (3) Hydraulics (4) Pneumatics (5) Radar (?) (6) Radio (7) Electrical (8) Ordnance (9) Ground Equipment --- _Ok we get the idea, I didn't realise that I had to purchase a 747 just to transport the Maintenance Officers around in._ Supervisors, of course the same as the Officers, plus high and low pressure fuel system specialists, engine strip down specialists, testing specialists and 'specialist' specialists to supervise all work carried out on the flying controls by specialist mechanics. Then she got onto her requirement for mechanics, I would soon need more 747's than Hunters. Her servicing schedule if anything was more complicated than the first one. 'But please be assured that no one will be allowed to even touch an aircraft that doesn't have the highest civilian and military qualifications'.

David's 'tiffy' (spit) saying leapt to my mind _'they may be able to tell you the square root of a jar of pickles, but they can't actually open one'_. Under her guidelines Topsy wouldn't even be allowed to sweep the hangar deck. She would of course expect full 'behind the scenes' support, along with at least three MAN fire tenders with around the clock crews _(aerobatics in the pitch dark must be a spectacular sight never to be seen)_ , and of course safety nets at the ends of each and every runway. With the amount of brake pads that we had just come across I doubted if we would ever have a brake failure, and even if we did, the runways were so long at El Campo that the aircraft would just trundle to a stop long before they reached the end of them.

Our third candidate was a rolly-polly of a man with a ruddy complexion and a ready smile. He didn't want a mass of technical Officers; just one deputy. All he wanted were a few supervisors and an abundant supply of mechanics, and he didn't have a clue about fire engines, good start John.

Lieutenant Commander John Dumphy Royal Navy (retired) rolled into the interview room, confidently shook our hands and asked us two things,

1. Can I take my jacket off, 'it's sweltering in here' and

2. 'Please call me John'.

John Dumphy started his Naval career as a common or garden 'baby sailor', and after completing his initial training at Arbroath in Scotland he was drafted even higher up the map, to Lossiemouth, in those days it was HMS Fulmar, a Royal Naval Air Station (and on paper the second busiest airfield in the UK), and his first squadron was 764 Naval Air Squadron; which operated Hawker Hunter GA11's and T8's. Junior Naval Air Mechanic 2nd class (Airframes and Engines) Dumphy JP progressed happily along his chosen path and went on to work on Buccaneers, both on shore and on board a 'real' aircraft carrier (it had steam catapults). When he returned to HMS Condor (Arbroath) for his Leading Air Mechanic A/E's course the powers that be spotted a rising star, and gave him the opportunity of going on the next four year Mech's Course. Mechanicians (Mech's) when fully trained were basically Tiffy's (spit), but with dirty hands. As they had once upon a time been 'real' mechanics they were exempted from the spitting. When he had completed his classroom and workshop training it was back up to Lossiemouth again, but this time it was to 738 NAS which also operated Hunters, to round off his training, but now as an Air Mec 2nd class, equivalent to a Petty Officer, a Senior Rate (supervisor). When he had done some more 'sea time', this time with Wessex helicopters he went in front of the Promotion Board to be promoted to AM1 (Air Mechanician 1st class), equivalent to a Chief Petty Officer but the 'powers that be' yet again spotted something, and in short shrift he was heading south to become an Air Engineering Officer, starting as a lowly Sub Lieutenant on a helicopter trials Squadron. (Topsy, when asked 'why didn't you go through for Officer?' would reply 'I would rather be king of the crap, than crap of the kings' – I think that there is logic in there somewhere). As John had come from the 'lower deck' it wasn't likely that he would be allowed to take the Air Engineering World by storm, but he did progress surprisingly well. He had the natural talent of being liked and respected by both his peers and subordinates alike, and so he finally ended his naval career as the Senior Air Engineering Officer of the 'small ships flights' parent Squadron at Portland. On leaving the Navy he exchanged his blue suite for another blue one, but this one had pin stripes in it, and went to work for Airworks (at one time being Topsy's boss), being responsible for the maintenance of among other types of aircraft, their Hunters. Was he so arrogant as to believe that only he and his deputy could manage the maintainers, nope, apparently I was going to have at least sixteen very clever pilots sat around most of the working day playing cards, and among them would be PhD's and Diplomas in abundance. As it was going to be their backsides that were going to be sitting in those aircraft, wasn't it obvious that they would have a vested interest in making sure that they were airworthy? _Good point John._ Next Mechanics, apart from a few Electricians, Radio Mechanics and bomb heads ( _wait I know the answer to that one, Armourers)_ he would require an ample supply of Airframe/Engine Mechanics. He would of course require supervisors of each trade, plus some Mech's (what about a spit or two, I asked) in the background, but what he really needed was the ample supply of Air Mechanics. Not only one for each aircraft as Plane Captains (so called, to instil a sense of pride/ownership in them), but others servicing the ground equipment, manning the stores/tool control cage and looking after the oils and fuel bowsers _('oops, I had forgot about them')_ , but he didn't want them scrubbing and cleaning, except of course the aircraft. They would be his back-up support team to cover sicknesses and other emergencies.

'What about all the other jobs related to operating the aircraft' I asked, 'the safety equipment, photography, paint spraying, anti-corrosion etc'?

'Multi-tasking' he said, for example having two Armourer Supervisors and two Armourers sat around all day on the off chance that an ejection seat might need to be removed was a bit of a waste of time and money, let them be sub trained into looking after the Safety Equipment and Flying Clothing.

'Isn't that a specialist trade in itself'? I asked.

'Yes' he agreed 'but only if we are going to pack our own parachutes'. What he wanted was a small mobile force that could, with the correct training, carry out the first line (up front) jobs of other trades. A pre-packed parachute could be removed from the ejection seat by a cross trained armourer, who would then do the periodic routine 'visual' inspections on it. If he found a problem then it would be sent off to the manufacturers for 'sorting', and a replacement one quickly drawn from the stores and fitted in its place. Simple, and no time lost. He wanted the same thing with the Plane Captains. If an aircraft landed with a problem with its engine he did not want a queue of specialists trying to fix it for the next week and a half, he wanted the Plane Captain, (and a couple of the other Captains whose aircraft were serviceable and 'tucked away in the shed), along with an electrician, a Grubber (Airframes/Engine) and Greenie (Electrical) Supervisor ready and waiting. They would quickly whip the tail assembly off, remove the engine (which would be sent back to Rolls Royce, or whoever got the contract for servicing them) and replace it with one that had been quietly sitting in the corner of the hangar. They would then slide the tail assembly back on, and after a second independent grubber had double checked the engine and flying control connections, a cross trained mechanic/tractor driver would tow it outside, under the supervision of any Supervisor (not just a specialist Aircraft Handler that had been sitting around waiting) and the Grubber Supervisor (or even the Plane Captain if he'd had the extra training) would then ground run the new engine to check it out _(but not when I am asleep - thank you very much)_. After the paperwork had been completed it would be the first aircraft towed onto the line the following morning so that its regular pilot could quickly take it up for a check test flight, and all things being equal it would be ready for normal operations along with the rest of the teams' aircraft, no training or display programmes would be interrupted, and 'no' he didn't know how many fire engines I would need, but he knew a man that did; Chalky White. He had met up with him at lunch time, 'that man had more professional expertise in relation to fire engines and salvage trucks in his little finger, than any engineer has in his (or her) whole body'.

I had seen how an independent 'rather large' small ships flight had efficiently operated when I'd had 411 & 412 embarked on the Lady S for the rescue, so as I sat there I didn't know what Teddy was thinking, but for me, John had just blown the competition clean out of the water, welcome on board Mr Chief Air Engineer.

~~~~

Chapter 4

The following week it was time for the prospective Team Leader/Flight Commanders to strut their stuff, and they would all be arriving by vicarious means pm Sunday, for an early start Monday. Various single and multi engined aircraft started to arrive from mid-morning onwards, depositing their owners and/or passengers outside Mi Casa, then suddenly I had a frantic call from Chalky in the tower. I raced outside just in time to see a small Russian SU-26 single seat aerobatic aircraft (complete with state markings) seemingly hover into view, its rudder only inches from the ground. I was almost certain that I knew the difference between a helicopter and a conventional fixed wing aircraft, and then I thought about Teddy's comment about re-writing the 'Theory of Flight hand book', Natasha had arrived. I watched her give a phenomenal display, and then plop down on the taxi track just in front of 'A' hangar. I mentally ticked the box 'give a solo aerobatic display'. She shut down the tiny aircraft and trotted over to me.

'Don't tell me, you stole the Sukhoi and have come here to claim asylum?' I asked her.

'Oh no' she said, 'when I told them that I was going to be Leader of the best aerobatic team in the World they lent it to me, no problem, but I had to promise to return it with a full tank of petrol'.

'Cocky little madam' I thought, then I realised that the criteria for Team Leader was for the best person to get the job, without fear, favour or sexual discrimination - and she was simply stating the obvious. 'How did you do the hovering thing?' I asked.

'Simple' she replied 'the SU-26 has more power than weight, so easy peesy'.

That display earned her a conducted tour of El Campo by yours truly, and then early the next morning I had another frantic phone call, this time from Topsy. A lunatic little girl wanted to steal a single seat Hunter, but first she had asked him 'please, where is the starter button?' Natasha was obviously up and about.

I laughed and told him to let her have it, we had plenty more on the way, and then walked outside onto the balcony and watched her as she walked once around the aircraft, climbed into it, lit the fire and taxied to the end of the runway. Fifteen minutes later I had mentally added 'in a Hunter' to the 'aerobatic' box, it was an awe inspiring display of man, sorry woman, melding with machine; I would hate to have been one of the other applicants that were watching, after that performance. On executing a perfect landing she taxied back in, clambered out and went up to an open mouthed Topsy. She reached up, closed his mouth with a finger, kissed him on the cheek and told him that 'Zaz iz a buttiful little airplane, zank you', then trotted off.

By Tuesday afternoon Teddy and I were redundant; we had got fed up with her 'suggesting' something, and then us passing on the good idea, so we cut out the middle men and let her get on with it and went for a 'cuppa'. Natasha had arrived with two or three ideas about aerobatic routines in her carrier bag, but after her first flight in the serene Hunter she tore them up, and on the first Thursday of the two week evaluation she came to us with her new routine, especially composed for the Hawker Hunter, and as she pirouetted and swooped gracefully in front of us in Teddy's office we both instantaneously knew that we were watching the birth of the teams opening public display next season. The F16's and 18's had the raw power, the continentals had their nimble dexterity with their Sukhoi's and Pitt's but we would have the grace and serenity of the world's most beautiful jet. I was almost reduced to tears, and it had yet to be performed by an aircraft.

The next day, as I sat quietly munching my chip butty in the greenhouse (that had been hand created for me by the finest chef this side of the black stump) Bob Edwards, the late owner of Topsy's aircraft, parked his rear at my table. Until Natasha had arrived he had been the unofficial front runner for the Team Leaders crown, as he had led the red arrows countless times, but after the obligatory small talk he said in desperation 'when you make her leader PLEASE tell her to slow down a bit, we are all knackered just trying to keep up with her'.

That afternoon Teddy and I had a chat, and the following morning we called her into my office and offered her the job, then I gathered the rest of the candidates together and broke the sad news to them. I just knew that they would all be devastated that they wouldn't be getting the position. They cheered.

By the beginning of week two, out of the twenty six starters, four of them had failed the medical, and another four lacked the 'intestinal fortitude' (guts) to fly as close to another aeroplane as Natasha demanded, (Teddy regularly commented that 'another coat of paint and they would be touching each other'), but we knew that the surviving pilots were shaping up to become the best of the best, and herein lay our problem, we had eighteen wannabee Flight Commanders for just four positions, but we were saved from making that decision by Natasha, as on Wednesday afternoon she came to see Teddy and I.

'Could we please have a little chat'? (She could switch the Russian accent on and off at will). She had gotten to know the other pilots very well over the past ten days, getting to know all their 'many strengths and few weaknesses', and 'if it was up to her (it was, but I wasn't going to let her know that just yet), she would have Thingamabob, Whatshisname, Hoojamaflip, and the stumpy little one as Flight Commanders (it's a pity that she wasn't as good with names as she was with strengths and weaknesses), with the rest as the remainder of the team, BUT she would have two pilots to many'.

I then let her into my little secret. As we had been sat idly by, watching, we had realised that we would require a support aircraft, and I had been looking around for a late series BAe 146 (Avro RJ) four engined 'whisper jet'. As four engined aircraft went it was quite titchy, but it could operate from smallish airfields without creating too much noise.

'Have any of the team got four engined aircraft rating?' I asked Teddy.

Apparently two had, Sally Peters and Peter Frost. Both were single parents, both were going to give up flying and get a 'proper job' if they didn't get into the team, and both fancied the pants off each other; although neither of them realised that their feelings were reciprocated, and then I had another one of my brilliant revelations, 'how about if we not only offered them the job of flying the 146 around, but also made them our spare pilots as well'. Natasha thought that the stigma of only being spares might be too much, but I went on, 'the Engineers are going to be 'on the books' (permanent staff) but the pilots will only have two year contracts, renewable by mutual agreement at the end of the display seasons'. In years to come I could manage with a sixty-four year old mechanic, but I could just imagine a group of sixty-four year old pilots being wheeled out in their bath chairs, 'the first one that remembered how to start an aircraft can try and have a go at flying it'. A slight exaggeration, but they got the point. As the 146's drivers they would be on the books, in reality it would mean that they would be paid slightly less than the rest, but once they gave up 'aerobaticing' they would end their time as my corporate jet pilots. Teddy also pointed out that all pilots in the team would have to be able to cover another team members position if unforeseen situations arose, but the spares could cover two, or even three, so they should get more than enough stick and display time, as a common or garden head cold would temporarily ground a pilot, 'and not only would they both qualify for permanent housing', I butted in, 'but their offspring would automatically receive one of my scholarships'. Maria joined us (only fair – as she would be sorting out the paperwork) and after discussing the finer intricacies for a few more minutes I summonsed them both into the office, and that could have been a big mistake, but I felt lucky.

As they came in I could tell that they had done their maths, sixteen aircraft, eighteen pilots, single parents and about to 'give up' on flying, WRONG, 'Would you like to be my spare pilots' I started off, and as I worked my way through what their responsibilities would be we had the full range of emotions displayed in front of us.

They went into Maria's empty office to talk it over, and were back in ten minutes, full of the joys of spring. They had actually agreed in about ten seconds flat but then they had a celebratory kiss (purely professional of course); they hoped that Maria wouldn't notice her re-arranged desk. The rest of the team were pulled in one at a time, first the four Flight Leaders, and then the remainder. All had come to El Campo hoping for a senior position, but when we had finished with them I had my aerobatic display team, ye-ha.

It was great having an aerobatic display team but I had one small problem, I had no finished aircraft, and I wouldn't have any until the end of the summer, so all the pilots, with the exception of Natasha, went off to hand in their notices, have a bit of family time, and complete the relevant 'short courses' of the ancillary tasks that each would be required to take on, and after sending a box of unmarked US Dollars to the 'relevant authority', Russia even let me keep the SU 26, bit to lively for me – but a great 'training aid' for the team. There was of course no chance of any displays this summer but the timing was actually perfect, the pilots and aircraft would arrive at the end of this summer's display season, although the maintainers would be up and running way before then. Teddy and Natasha would then start to knock the new team into shape in the autumn, they would then all have a three week break for Christmas, and then it would be down to the serious stuff, and hopefully after a fairly successful display season the pilots would then be off for another well-earned break (airline tickets by kind courtesy of yours truly). The maintainers would also have their fair share of leave, but it would be spread out over the training season, and as most of them would be living local, only those that were commuting would get the air tickets, it would give John another thing to sort out when he wasn't juggling nineteen Hunters. I say nineteen Hunters, that was because I now had sixteen display aircraft plus the two spares, and now my very own one, but unfortunately for him it didn't stop there, he would also now be responsible for the maintenance of a BAe 146 and all the other aircraft that I was collecting along the way; as the saying goes - _what's the point of keeping a dog and barking yourself_. Rover, sorry John, seemed quite an adaptable kind of person so I let him get on with it, but although he had the responsibility for servicing my personal aircraft I had no intention of letting anyone else fly it. It would still have a glass cockpit like all the others, but it would also have a few extra refinements, including a more sophisticated navigation system, so that I wouldn't get lost when I was off on one of my jaunts (which would be most of the time), an interface that would allow my PC on screen (if I got bored I could play solitaire), and a satellite phone so that I could still chat to all and sundry, even when I wasn't on terra firma.

One of the first things that Natasha and John ganged up on me about was the identities of the aircraft. 'What was the point' I said, 'they will all have their individual aircraft identification letters', but apparently it was ok to tell a mechanic to go and check the floggle toggle valve on the G450 or Harvard, but it was a whole different kettle of fish when he was faced with a hangar full of identical aircraft, that had a multitude of identification letters on their sides. The poor mechanic would be wandering around half the night just trying to find the right aircraft.

'Point taken' I said.

'Do you want numbers or letters' asked John.

I wasn't going to let them get away with ganging up on me that easy, 'Neither' I said, 'I want names'.

They went a funny colour.

The idea that had been floating around in the back of my mind, was to use the alphabet, but with a difference, I was determined to have another 'Lady S'. The first aircraft in line would have a name starting with the letter 'A', ie **Angela**. It would have a large fancy ' **A** ' on either side of its fin, and a large **A** \- with small **'ngela'** on either side of its nose. The Pilots name would be written, not printed, on the side of the aircraft below the cockpit on the port side (getting very nautical), and the Plane Captains name would go on the starboard side, 'oh! and of course they will all be in gold' I added. It will all look very nice against the British Racing Green I thought, BUT I had a problem, I wanted **Lady S,** but was I to have large **L** -small 'ady s', or small lady - large **S**? Decisions, decisions.

'The latter would be more practical' said sensible John, 'you can then have a large **S** on either side of the fin, and Lady **S** on either side of the nose'.

'Great idea, I like it'.

'Ok' he said, 'I will tell HHR to get the gold paint out then'.

'John, oh John, oh John' I said, 'you really have got a lot to learn about working for me!!!!!!'

Natasha matched each pilot up with an aircraft and a letter of the alphabet, and then contacted them; they had one week to come up with three names for me to choose from. I was flexible, that's why I ended up with **A** rabella, **B** lodwyn, **C** uddles, **D** ingbat, **E** thelred, **F** loozy, **G** lencora, **H** elga, **I** ngrid, **J** uliette, **K** ing Kong, **L** ewellyn, **M** elva, **N** utcracker, **O** phelia, and **P** umpkin. Unfortunately I had to reluctantly veto my personal favourite though, John estimated that the aircraft would have to have be extended six feet to fit Llanfair-pwllgwyngyll-gogerychwyrndrobw-llllantysiliogogogoch, all in, although I'm still glad that I'm not going to be the sign writer. 'Can I have the standard aircraft markings in Bottle Green' I asked, 'they would look much prettier than black or white'.

'I think it's illegal' John said, 'but who's going to have the spherical's to tell you'.

Good lad, he was starting to get the hang of it at last.

The only other 'urgentish' problem that I had before I took myself of for some serious 'bronzy bronzying' was what on earth was the collective noun for a gaggle of Hunters? 'Hunties', the 'Huntsmen' (I liked that one but I doubted if my four female pilots would), then I went onto a play on the word 'green'. The 'green angels', to close to the blue angels, the 'green' arrows, same again (only different), the 'green goddesses', nope they were fire engines, then I thought 'the lean green aerobaticing machines' or 'The Green Machines' for short. 'That'll do, problem sorted'.

~~~~

Chapter 5

Where does the man who can go almost anywhere on the planet go for his hol's, Island hopping of course. Not your deserted kind, the ones that have one or two people living on them, or possibly three. I had a folder full of invitations from the rich and famous that had bought Islands in the Bahamas and the Caribbean, from ones that could make it disappear, (along with the Statue of Liberty), to someone that couldn't land his own jumbo jets on his, that was not very good planning now was it, perhaps he was a 'Virgin' when it came to buying up islands. Naturally I wouldn't have that problem; I would just park the Lady S (the floating one) at the bottom of their garden, so Carol took the Lady S over the pond, and parked her in the short stay boat park in Florida where I joined them after a freebee trip on one of my 'host to be's' Jumbo's, no he wasn't a circus owner - he was the one like a Virgin, wrong again it wasn't Madonna - she's next month.

First off it was a few days of heavy duty relaxation, and trying not to think of aircraft in any shape or form, it wasn't easy but by the fourth day I was starting to think nautical again, so after saying goodbye to some of my older 'new' friends, and their clackety clacker machine disappeared off into the sunset, I looked at the flat calm sea, and the opportunity was just too good to miss, **'Carol, full steam ahead'** , and the Lady S was off like a whippet into the night. After an hour of letting the Lady S charge majestically through the inky black sea I suddenly realised that we might bump into something in the dark so I reluctantly told Carol to reduce speed to 'sleeping speed', the Lady S wasn't going to sleep, I was. It was still a flat calm sea so I was going to take advantage of the fact, and use my large harbour suite at the stern of the ship, and I didn't want to be shaken out of bed every five minutes by the vibration, and so as the sea air and/or Bacardi's started to get to me I bade all and sundry a fond 'nan-night' and it was off to beddy byes for me.

That was ok for about six hours, and then I got cramp in my leg. By the time it had subsided I was wide awake so I limped up to the almost deserted bridge for a quick deco, quickly followed by Carol, David and James, can't they trust me to be on my own for five minutes. It was still pitch black and we were off some obscure part of the North American coast line when the Second, or was it the Third Officer, who had his face glued to a radar screen commented that we were slowly overhauling what seemed to him to be a small coastal freighter, it was about eight cables in front of us. I had left my nautical conversion chart in my cabin but I knew that there were ten Cables in a nautical mile, which was in itself two thousand and twenty five yards long, which in plain English meant that 'it' was starting to get 'close'. Carol was just about to 'hang a right' (move slowly to starboard) when he said 'oh ho'.

I don't like 'oh ho's', especially in the dark.

When they were fitting out The Lady S for me in Germany, of course I wanted the best of everything for her, so one of her radars, the close range one, had just come off of the secret list. It apparently, according to the technician tweaking it, was a very close relative of the 'type something or other' sonar, the one that could hear a shrimp break wind (not a verbatim transcription) at a thousand meters, so this radar had no trouble picking out the rubbish being thrown over the stern of the freighter, not a problem in itself, not even worthy of one 'oh'. The 'oh ho' came when it was thrown over again, and again and again.... In fact it was thrown over ten times and floated at evenly spaced intervals, with electronic radar reflectors at either end. The freighter obviously didn't have any radar closely related to mine as he didn't know that we were just behind him. If he had he wouldn't have, according to Carol, just dumped a huge quantity of drugs in front of us. 'How do you know that?' I asked.

'Guess work' she said, 'but based on sound logic. The freighter is running parallel to a desolate part of the coast, just outside territorial waters, with no running lights on, and the reflectors are of the type that ships, apart from those almost on top of them, won't pick up, but aircraft will, and it is almost dawn'. She would bet her pension (who said she was going to get one?) that the packages were drugs wrapped in floatation bags, and strung together with stout rope, waiting for a seaplane owned by a drug smuggler to come and collect them as soon as it was light enough to land.

David quickly disappeared off of the bridge, and Carol 'darkened ship', not with a quick coat of quick drying paint, but by having all the navigation and external walkway lights switched off, along with our own electronic radar reflectors, and slowed to a crawl. One of the things noted on the Lady S's sea trials was that as she had originally been laid down as a 'stealthy-ish' warship her radar signature was very weak, so electronic 'boosters' were fitted, so that passing liners and super tankers wouldn't run us down in the dark. Once the freighter was well clear Carol inched the Lady S up to the packages, and as I looked down at them I 'felt' a presence. Glancing sideways I noticed that it was Pierre, my sea going Senior Sergeant wearing the latest in nautical 'night time' attire, a black jump suit, flak jacket, Kevlar helmet and big boots, I hoped they wouldn't mark the deck. He was also carrying the latest in seamen's knives, made by Bowie, and a Steyr AUG assault rifle, made by Steyr. David had obviously thrown a wobbly at the first mention of drug smugglers, and as soon as Carol's worst fears were proved right she was on the radio to the Coastguards but ...

' _Thank you for your call madam but all our sailors are busy on a wild goose chase at the other end of the World at the moment, will you please leave a message after the bell, and we might get back to you later'._

Eventually, when they and the DEA (Drug Enforcement Administration) realised that they had been 'slipped a crippler' (another one of Topsy's sayings) and sent on a wild goose chase, they said they would dispatch a Coastguard vessel post haste.

'How long is post haste?' Carol asked.

'About two hours' they said, 'will you just keep the drugs in sight, but please don't attempt to retrieve them (which of course would have been the sensible thing to do), apparently we might 'contaminate the evidence' (if the North Atlantic Ocean couldn't do it, what chance did we have?), so the Lady S slowly started circling the drugs, and once the sun came up I found that going around in circles had its advantages, and one of them was that you could stand still and still get an all-round tan. Just as I was about to ring Topsy and tell him the good news about this new form of 'bronzying', another 'oh ho' came from the bridge. As we all looked at the blip that had appeared on my 'little' radars 'big brother' we could all tell that it was heading in our direction, and as we watched, the fairly big blip split into two, one medium sized blip and a small one, and as they came into view we thought 'oh - they must be on their way to a War Bird convention', but as there was nothing but Africa behind us we then assumed that the drugs must be their intended destination.

The larger of the two was a PBY-5a Consolidated Catalina; I could tell it was a -5a because it had large wheels tucked into the sides of its fuselage. It was a World War 2 era amphibian that could alight on either land or sea, and it looked as though it had just rolled off the production line. The smaller aircraft was as equally immaculate, it was a Supermarine Spitfire, and as I was getting quite knowledgeable on these sorts of things I knew that it was one of the earlier marks as it had eight dummy .303 machine gun ports in its wings. 'Very realistic' I thought. As they circled the Lady S, Carol called them up on the VHF radio and asked them what their intentions were? They obviously weren't very honourable as a torrent of foul language erupted out of the speaker above our heads. I thought 'language Timothy, ladies present', but I doubted that anyone up there was named Timothy - Chuck or Clint maybe, but definitely not Timothy. 'Go forth and multiply' the voices continued 'and leave the pretty little packages to us'. As you can image it was not a literal translation.

'Or what?' Carol asked.

'You will ** ** ** well regret it bit**'.

'Oh go away and find a museum to hide in, the Coastguards are on their way' Carol snapped, after all she had a fully functioning warship (maybe not in name) under her, and with that the Spitfire winged over and buzzed us.

'Very intimidating' I thought as I slipped out onto the bridge wing to watch the display, but the second time around the pilot remembered to select the right switches and eight rows of splashes came leaping towards me.

Two things then happened simultaneously; Pierre, who had just collected his new toy from down below stepped from the hangar, sighted and pressed the trigger on the stinger. Its missile then streaked off in the direction of the Spitfire, and the other thing that happened was that Charlie cannoned into my back. As I landed up against the steel side plating, bullets hammered on the other side of it, and then started to fly over my head, and Charlie, who was unfortunately still in mid-air, let out a grunt of pain and rolled away to one side. I heard, rather than saw the Spitfire explode, and then Agnetha erupted onto the bridge wing and started to rip Charlie's clothes off. As they were getting married in three weeks time I had 'invited' them along on this trip more as a 'honeymoon rehearsal' rather than serious work, so it wasn't entirely unexpected, but may-be just a tad public. Because of his 'almost' marital situation Charlie had not been given a routine 'shake' when I had appeared on the bridge a couple of hours earlier, but never one to be left out of things, when he woke up and found black suited sailors running around the ship, he was dressed and on the bridge in two shakes of a gnats tail (?), and just in time to see me disappear out of the door.

I raised my head above the dodger just in time to see a shower of confetti, no piece larger than a 'tickler paper', flutter into the sea. It was the waste of a beautiful aeroplane but those 'dummy' guns were just a little too realistic for my liking.

Charlie was very lucky, as he had flown serenely through the air, a bullet had entered the neck of his flak jacket. It had then travelled down its entire length, fortunately doing no serious damage on its journey, and then exited, after first taking a quick bite out of his nether regions. Doctora Clara insisted on putting a couple of stitches 'where the sun don't shine', after politely informing Agnetha that get well kisses were just not going to work, but she could try again after she had finished!!!

As all this was going on the Catalina was still circling above us, and it transpired later that they were furiously talking to 'El Gordo' back at the ranch, and he was beside himself. Apparently the pilot of the Spitfire was his only son, and the drugs bobbing around in the water were his ticket into the super league of the drug running fraternity. The crew of the Catalina weren't exactly sure which event was causing him the most grief, but one thing was clear, if they didn't return with the drugs then their only alternative was to fly into the nearest mountain - so they devised a daring plan. On either side of its fuselage, just aft of the parasol wing, the Catalina had a large glass bubble. Crewmen of old could fire machine guns out of them, or if they were in the surveillance mode they could scan the oceans from them, or in the rescue role they could pull survivors inboard through them, they were really very handy things to have, and so a modern day use for one of them was to stand Tweedle Dumb the third (TD3 for short), a distant cousin of the O.K. Corral one, in the open hatch, with a long piece of rope. He tied one end of the heaving line to a grappling hook, and the other end tightly around his wrist; it would be more than his life was worth if he let go of the rope, and the creative pilots idea was to dart in before the 'Nancy' green boat got its 'knickers out of its twist', land, taxi passed the drugs, then TD3 would fling out the hook, snag one of the connecting lines and then they could taxi away faster than that wreck could go, and retrieve the drugs at their leisure. It sounded like a good plan - in theory, but the Lady S was just starting to turn about and head back towards the drugs, but the pilot thought he saw his 'window of opportunity', and barrelled in. He lowered the tip floats, and that ended the good news, first he was 'too high', so he shoved the control yoke forward to lose some height, then he was 'to fast' so he pulled up, and this went on for a few seconds before he carried out what could only be described by an onlooker as a controlled crash. It shook the aircraft up, jolted the co-pilots false teeth out, and knocked TD3 off his feet. The aircraft was going way too fast as it approached the drugs but TD3 didn't realise this as he struggled to his feet and looked out of the blister. He saw the drug bundles slipping quickly by, and threw the hook. Unfortunately for him it hooked the rope securing the last bundle, I say unfortunately because at any other time it would have been a brilliant throw, but as the Catalina was travelling way too fast the coiled up rope quickly disappeared out of the blister. TD3, never the brightest bulb in the box totally forgot that the end of the rope was still tied securely to his wrist, and ten large bundles of drugs, in a straight line make a very good impersonation of a sea anchor (a small canvas 'parachute' device attached to the end of a rope, that when thrown over the bow of a stationary boat brings the said boats bow into wind), (Lesson over). First the rope went taut, then his arm was yanked out of its socket, and finally, just before his arm was completely ripped off, he was yanked bodily out of the Catalina. This is where David enters; he had been watching what the bobbing amphibian was trying to do, but rightly guessed that it was really going way too fast to do it. He scrutinized the planes blister for signs of more machine guns but saw none, so as a magnanimous gesture he let it continue on, but just in case he had a finger wrapped casually around the trigger of a Browning .50 calibre M2 heavy machine gun - that just happened to be now mounted on the bridge wing. The Spitfire had caught them all out, who would have thought that one would still have its real guns fitted in this day and age, so he was taking no chances this time, but as the Catalina started to rise back into the air, after TD3 had 'abandoned ship', he briefly squeezed the trigger, and the amphibian lost its 'dual trade' status, its starboard wing tip float disintegrated. He had taken many lives in his time, but he had never killed wantonly, so he just made sure that the miscreants would not be able to land on water again, well not until the float had been replaced anyway, so with the float damaged and TD3 'absent without leave' the crew set course for dry land, praying feverently as they went that they could blame it all on him and possibly survive to see another sun rise.

As TD3 broke surface his luck briefly took a turn for the better, he had no life jacket on, he couldn't swim, and he had one useless arm, but his good arm came in contact with a very buoyant bundle of drugs, so he hung on for dear life. The Lady S hove-to close by and quickly lowered a sea boat. He was then unceremoniously dragged into the small craft, searched, and when it was found that he was really quite seriously injured, he was treated marginally better, not that it stopped his mouth. 'El Gordo would be doing 'this' to everyone, and 'that' to everyone'; he only shut up when Doctora Clara finally slipped a needle into his arm. His shoulder was a mess, but yet again he had a lucky break (or was it a dislocation), Lady S had a top of the line sick bay, and Doctora Clara Botella had been a first rate trauma surgeon in the Spanish Navy, although the horrors that she had encountered in Afghanistan made her give up full time surgery and go back to general practice. She still kept her hand in at a local hospital, but never slept properly for weeks afterwards. By the time TD3 was out of surgery (he refused to give his name) the Coastguard Cutter had arrived, and photographed and retrieved the drugs. They reckoned that it was a substantial amount; in fact it could be the substantialist amount that they had encountered in many a long year.

As there was a death involved, we had to return under escort to the Coast Guards Clearwater Air Station with them for a full investigation, and so the Cutters 'Master-at-Arms' (head policeman) came on board the Lady S to escort his 'prisoners' back to port (RHIP), although TD3 was going nowhere anytime soon, he was firmly shackled to a bed in the sick bay, with nothing in reach but a disposable bed pan (he was certainly not going to use one of my shiny stainless steel ones), and if the Master-at-Arms had only but known it, I reckoned that the other prisoner, 'Lady S', could easily have bested the Cutter in a fair fight.

The Air Station, which is tucked away in a corner of the St Petersburg-Clearwater International Airport, fortunately had sea access, so I didn't have to fit wheels to the sides of the Lady S, but it was still a media scrum when we arrived, and everyone in authority that visited me only seemed interested in a free lunch rather than the boring facts of the case, so Marcel was kept busy making eggs 'sunny side up', grits and brownies. Within twenty-four hours he was adamant that although he was only a couple of meters away from the 'land of plenty', they would try and get him ashore at their peril, he was mortified that he might catch something unspeakable - culinary wise, and the local Chief of Police, who was 'political' rather than 'practical' (he could talk the hind legs off a donkey) (but had his heart was in the right place - his wallet), was, after one 'full english breakfast' (with all the trimmings) - mine, although my tinnitus would never be the same again. Over the next few days things settle down and fortunately everyone accepted the fact the Pierre had 'accidentally shot' the aircraft down with a signal flare when he had tripped over a ring-bolt on the flight deck, and the Catalina's 'pristine' bullet ridden float, that they had retrieved from the scene, was sent to a local museum as proof of an old 'war story' by a local hero of his encounter with a U-Boat.

The only sad (ish) thing that occurred was that TD3, who had flatly refused to say anything after regaining consciousness committed suicide in solitary confinement. The Detective investigating his death commented that this grossly overweight fifty year old man had been an athletic marvel; he could have 'gone for gold' at the Olympics. Apparently TD3 had balanced on the end of his bunk, sprung three feet upwards, two feet forward, and then did a half twist to enable him to tie a piece of cord three times around a light fitting so he could then hang himself with it, and all this with one arm strapped up. How the cord had gotten into the cell could not be explained at the present time as the night supervisor of the cell block was 'out of State' choosing his new pickup truck.

A week later we were released; I think they had handcuffed our anchor cable to a buoy, completely exonerated from the non-crime of the century. El Gordo had not lost a son, Spitfire, or TD3. His son was alive and well and away on business in his aeroplane; he had been speaking to him on the telephone only moments before the police had arrived 'by appointment'. His Catalina had been destroyed in a fire at a nearby disused airfield weeks before, and he had never heard of TD3 – prove otherwise.

~~~~

Chapter 6

As we were in the area I thought it might be a good idea to do the Florida experience, so Carol found an empty parking slot and I got out the brochures. Disney World was a disaster, but it wasn't Walt's fault - it was David's. All day long I couldn't move a muscle without bumping into yet more muscle, hired muscle. David was into Close protection mode, with a capital C, _he_ was taking El Gordo's threats seriously even if the police weren't, so the next morning I reluctantly agreed with him and told Carol to make preparations to get under way; I certainly had enough shares in this boat to tell its Captain where to go, and that was the signal for Caroline to go into a flat spin. Daughter Cindy, for some obscure reason had 'just loved' the Tee-shirt that her parents had brought her back from Palm Beach, and would like one just like it from everywhere that they went without her. They had forgotten to get her one from Florida so 'hang on a sec Boss; I've just got to pop to the shops', so I stood on the flight deck along with David, idly watching his wife and Agnetha, who was going along to keep her company, make their way quickly to the Marina entrance; there were some suitable looking souvenir shops just outside the barrier. They slipped around the barrier and started to make their way across the road when two large vans came out of nowhere and screeched to a stop either side of them. At first I thought that they had both been hit but then the vans drove off at high speed and there was no sign of Caroline and Agnetha anywhere. David went mental, and I was not far behind, but there was nothing we could do, the vans were long gone by the time we arrived at the site. Very quickly the road filled with cars fitted with blue flashing lights, including the Chief of Police's, and I very publicly gave him a reality check. He had assured me several days ago that El Gordo was not a problem, so now I told him, in no uncertain terms, that I held him personally responsible for the safety of Caroline and Agnetha'. If anything happened to them then come election time he wouldn't even make Chief of parking tickets. David and Charlie were out of it, but James was doing his job, and had been talking to Detective (1st grade) Harry Decker, who had been in charge of the crime scene until the Chief had arrived. It was obvious that he held his illustrious Chief in even lower esteem than I did, so when the Chief told me that he was leaving, to form a task group to hunt the perpetrators down, the Detective tried to get a word in.

'What about road blocks, aerial surveillance, c...'?

'If you have anything to say to me Detective, say it through your Supervisor,' he tried to snarl, but it came out as more of a whinge, 'at the task group meeting in my Conference Room in two hours' time', and as the Police Chief scurried away the Detective stood in the middle of the road looking on in total disbelief.

James then took charge, he was an expert at quickly assessing the competency of Officers so; 'Detective, let's get to the Lady S, and then you can tell me what you need', and within fifteen minutes Harry found out what it was like to be a Police Chief (only with unlimited funds). The first person that Harry rang when he arrived on board was his brother, who was a Special Forces 'Ranger'. He was based at a nearby 'Fort' and was visiting with him and his wife Hilary whenever he had the time, ostensibly to catch up on some nephew time, although he thought that it might also have something to do with his wife's sister, she was vacationing with them for a while. At the moment it was very quiet, Ranger wise, so recently all Harry had heard every time the cable news came on (I was usually the lead story) was, 'did I tell you I know his security guy, I owe him big time, 'look there he is', etc, etc', so his opening line was 'Jim-Bob, I have a situation here, it concerns that Limey guy that you know, his wife has just been kidnapped, and it looks like my guys have been ordered to go slow, can you help?' He listened for a few minutes, grunted three times, said 'OK' twice, and then hung up. He then rang an unlisted number at the DEA. 'Chuck I have a problem', and then went on to explain again what was happening, then 'do you have any addresses for El Gordo' (fatty to those out of earshot). Just one 'OK', and then he hung up, and turned to James and said 'my brother will see what he can do, and my cousin will let me have some addresses in a few minutes, let's get busy'. He used every phone at his disposal, and Scott to hack into some very off limit sites, but after fifteen minutes he sat back in disbelief, his first instincts had been right, all Police air resources had been grounded 'to await a unified response to the situation', and no road blocks were to be set up as ' **a'** complaint from ' **a'** member of the public had been received, and of course it therefore had to be fully investigated, before this method of crime prevention could be used again, although individual officers, if their paper-work was up to date should be on the look-out for two white vans. Both vans that had taken Caroline and Agnetha had been black so I reached for my phone to ring the Police Chief.

'What's the betting that he sends you for a colour blindness test before he does anything about it' Harry said, and he was almost right, 'they would amend that 'small' detail the next time there was a bulletin update'.

'When will that be?' I asked in exasperation.

'After the Task force meeting', and then he hung up on me, it was obvious to all and sundry that we were on our own, so as I was only the 'wallet' I took a step back to let the professionals get on with it. Chuck quickly rang back with four addresses, one was a local town house, one was El Gordo's private 'club' (about thirty miles away) and two were out of State, 'so don't forget you will need FBI assistance to go across the State Line' his cousin finished with.

'In your dreams sunshine' I finished with.

David was slowly getting back into the swing of things and contacted a company that specialised in satellites, not the TV kind - the other kind, spying, and within half an hour we had four images on a screen, one image for each property, although apparently there were going to be a lot of angry people at 'Langley' around about now as they had just lost 'four of their Birds'. As the images came on line the first thing that I noticed was a door hanging off its hinges at the first address, Charlie had obviously already checked that one out, and within five minutes we watched as Charlie, Pierre and several of my crew enter the cat house, sorry club, with their universal search warrants in their hands; Mr Colt had a lot to answer for. Lots of semi-naked ladies streamed out but there was no sign of Caroline or Agnetha. David then told Charlie to return to the Lady S as the other two addresses were miles away, and in opposite directions, so he would need air transportation. That was when my mobile phone entered stage left. It rang, which was very unusual as not many people know my number, but Maria had apparently put this call through.

'This is Loo-ten-ant Colonel Hiram G Chickenhymer the third, Officer Commanding the Special Forces detachment at Fort Dodge (I think he said Dodge), I understand that your 'little gar-danged boat' has some aviation fuel on board?'

'Err yes' I replied, wondering where this conversation was going.

'Well son, I have a slight problem, I have two Special Ops Black Hawks in your vicinity and they seem to be running low on fuel.'

Any other time I would have told 'Daddy' where the nearest Shell garage was, but I was feeling charitable, even if he did call the Lady S a little boat. A 'boat' is a submarine. 'Well you had better send them on over then' I told him.

'Well thank you kindly son, oh, and you wouldn't do me a favour would you? I have nothing for them to do for the next few hours, could you keep the crews and passengers entertained for me?'

'Certainly' I said, and went aft to await the arrival of Jim-Bob and his team.

I had to park one of the helicopters in the marina's car park, but after the crewman had delicately rammed the business end of a pump action assault shot gun under the yacht club secretary's nose, there seemed to be no problem with that. It was also very strange that the helicopters only took about three pints of fuel between them.

Harry had worked out that a ve-hic-le pro-seed-ing at the legal speed limit (so as not to attract attention) would take approximately four hours to drive to either of the last two addresses. The first one was El Gordo's airfield, and the other one was a rather dilapidated looking stud farm. After a very heated debate it was decided that the two helicopters would not be dispatched, one to each property, as that would only split our force in two, and also that there was no proof yet that Caroline and Agnetha would even end up at either property; they may be going in totally the opposite direction.

Three hours fifty-nine minutes and fifty-eight seconds after the kidnapping the camera covering the stud farm zoomed out. An analyst at Head Office had spotted (on his 'bigger picture') a black ve-hic-le exiting an obscure freeway exit close-by. The black van pulled up outside the main house and a rather large passenger got out of the front passenger door and spoke to a female occupant of the farm, who quickly disappeared indoors, as did the two security staff patrolling the grounds, then he slid the side door open, and a blanket draped female was pushed out, and Caroline did as she had been told to do by David, she looked up at the sky. A positive ID - then the blanket fell to the ground. 'That would explain why the tracking devices that she and Agnetha had attached to their clothes weren't functioning' a tiny part of his brain told him, while the rest of it was working overtime, then Agnetha was dragged from the van: she was in no state to look anywhere.

~~~~

Chapter 7

After disembarking from the Lady S and trotting down to the security barrier, Caroline grabbed Agnetha's hand and started to cross the busy road, and they made it half-way across before two black vans bracketed them in. As she instinctively reached into her handbag for her spray one of the doors flew open and a very unsavoury looking man sprayed her first, and as her knees started to crumble she saw Agnetha receive the same treatment from another man, a very fat man. As she slowly regained consciousness she did just as her David had taught her, she didn't move, or make a sound. She realised that she was naked, with only an old blanket thrown over her, and was well and truly tied to the side of the utility van. As she sat there regaining full consciousness she started using what senses that she had available to her to assess the situation. She was obviously in a moving vehicle, presumably one of the vans, and it smelled terrible, with body odour and other unidentifiable smells, and then she heard the animal like grunting. There was tape over her mouth but not over her eyes so she slowly opened them, and what she saw made her go rigid. She tried to scream and lash out but to no avail, and the two men just laughed and continued brutalising Agnetha. Slowly she calmed down and quickly realised that both men were drunk, bottles of beer rolled all around the van floor, and Agnetha had obviously been unconscious for some considerable time because she was in a terrible state, and not making a sound. She presumed that they had started on Agnetha while she was unconscious, but then she must have woken up and fought viciously, scratching and biting her attackers, Caroline could see untreated wounds on both their bodies. Their reply had been obvious, a large pair of blood stained pliers and a hammer lay on the floor. She then looked closer at the unconscious woman's body; they had been systematically torturing her. For perhaps the first time in her life she one hundred percent prayed with every fibre of her being, not for the salvation of these animals, or her own safety, but that Charlie would exact retribution on them - and the more painful the better. As they sat back against the side of the van, exhausted from their exertions, the fat one drunkenly introduced everyone. He of course was El Gordo, 'not because of my size you understand, but because of my importance' (wishful thinking), and his friend was 'Harley'; his hobby was driving his motor bike over other peoples body parts, and finally there was 'Zoomer', the driver. Zoomer was into making specialised movies; they were called snuff movies, where the principle participant was killed on camera. These films were in great demand by a discerning clientele and they would pay good money for a quality film, 'and guess what bitch, you are going to be the star in your very own movie, and a copy of it will be sent to your boss, Michaels'. Apparently the only reason that she was still in one piece was that he owed 'Pencil' a favour - he wanted to be the principle supporting actor in her film. He then went on to explain in graphic detail why he was called Pencil, and it had absolutely nothing to do with his writing skills; it was because of his creativity when using very sharp pencils on snuff stars. Just as things started to look as though they might not wait for Pencil, Zoomer shouted back to them that they were approaching their exit. Quickly they took final swigs from the open bottles of beer in the ice box (they had obviously come prepared for a long wait) and after dressing, El Gordo managed to squeeze his bulk into the front passenger seat of the van.

As the van drew up outside the dilapidated house El Gordo shouted to his 'woman' to go back inside, checked that the two roving heavies were out of sight, and then slid the side door back. Harley had cut the ropes securing Caroline to the side of the van and then tied her hands behind her back and hobbled her ankles so that she could walk, just, but couldn't make any sudden moves, and as the door slid open he kicked her over to fatty in the doorway, and then grabbed the other one by the hair. Caroline looked up at the sky and hoped that David was watching, then she did a terrible thing, she shrugged her shoulders and the blanket fell to the ground. 'If this doesn't make him want to kill these animals nothing will' she thought. She was dragged into the house and sat down on a hard chair in what was obviously the home gymnasium, and Agnetha was dumped unceremoniously on the floor beside her, she didn't make a sound. Her chair was dragged backwards up to the wall bars and her elbows were roughly tied to them, and then the end of the rope was looped savagely around her neck. After a few slaps, just for the fun of it, they then left her alone, and within a few minute she could hear them tucking into a hearty meal, and then all went quiet, hopefully they had fallen asleep. If she tried to struggle she would choke herself, which seemed like a good option for later on, but first she must look at the window, after first confirming her worst fears, so Caroline studied Agnetha closely as she lay there on the floor in front of her. She studied her as if she were a cadaver lying on a mortuary slab, which in effect she was, but she had to be one hundred percent certain, she didn't want to have any guilty feelings in the future over what would surely follow. Finally, as Agnetha's skin slowly changed colour she was one hundred percent certain, now she would not feel guilty when they arrived. David had taught her how to estimate time without the aid of a clock, but that trick wasn't necessary, the gym's clock ticked away as she quietly watched the corner of the window, and one hour and seven minutes after settling down to watch it, a small red dot appeared in its corner, and she started to hum, as if in pain. The dot started to circle and she stopped humming. David had found her, and she could now talk to him if it was safe. It was safe.

'Hello my darling, is that you?' she whispered.

The dot moved up and down, 'yes'.

'I'm fine my darling, is Charlie listening in?

The dot moved from side to side, 'no'.

'Good, Agnetha hasn't made it; they raped and tortured her before she died'. If that didn't sign their death warrants then nothing would, and as the dot shook in the corner she could only imagine what was going through her husband's mind, then she heard the door handle squeak, someone was on the other side of the door so she continued whispering - but this time to Agnetha, as if trying to rouse her.

'It's pointless talking to her you stupid bitch' Harley said, 'She was dead before we even dragged her out of the truck'. That would at least take some of the guilt off David; he couldn't have saved her even if he had been here waiting for the van to arrive, then he matter of factly continued, as if they were discussing the weather, 'but you won't have long to wait to finish your jabbering with her, the Pencil has just arrived', and with that Zoomer entered the gym, carrying a state of the art movie camera and sound equipment, 'we don't want to miss any of your little screams now do we' he joked, waving a handful of microphones in her direction. Behind him in waddled El Gordo and another even fatter man, or was it the other way round? If either of them was the Pencil then he didn't get his name from his build, he was obviously El Gordo's twin brother.

As Caroline quietly sat watching the preparations for her death being made, she absently thought about the clinical reasons behind each of their odd behaviours. It was obvious that Fatty (1) had been sent over the top by the death of his son and the loss of the drugs, but what about his twin brother Fatty (2)? then she quickly realised that whatever happened to one, happened to the other one as well, after Fatty (2) stubbed his toe on a piece of gym equipment and Fatty (1) went 'ouch' and rubbed his toe, very weird. Harley on the other hand was just your average common or garden paranoid schizophrenic, but Zoomer was fascinating to watch, he obviously had advanced signs of obsessive-compulsive disorder as he set out the microphones for the sixth time, but there was definitely a touch of 'Dissociative Identity Disorder' in him as well, as he argued continuously with himself, in two distinct accents., and they all obviously had underlying 'sexual problems' (they were dirty old men), which explained why they all seemed to get on so well together.

Fatty (1), El Gordo, was the first one to notice that Caroline wasn't writhing and screaming and begging for mercy. 'What's up bitch, looking forward to it are you hee-hee-hee'. He really did think that he was so so funny (and so did his brother).

'Oh most definitely fatso' she said in her primmest English voice. This made both of them very angry indeed.

'Is that #### (censored) equipment ready yet Zoomer' he demanded, and when he got no reply he slowly rotated his bulk around, just in time to see Zoomer slide gracefully to the floor, sound asleep. Fortunately there was a gentleman in black lowering the camera to the floor beside him so it did not get damaged.

'Harley' they both screamed, but Harley was already sound asleep against the wall bars, and both then realised that something was not quite going according to plan as they both looked down the wrong ends of seven assorted weapons of personal destruction, and one ten cent pea shooter, which quietly went 'pufft'. A tiny dart flew into Fatty (2)'s bulbous neck, Fatty (1) grabbed his own neck - and they both flopped to the floor unconscious, and a rather nice looking American gentleman (well nice eyes anyway, the rest of him was covered in black) looked sideways at Pierre and said in awe 'You have just got to tell me where I can get one of those things from man!'

~~~~

Chapter 8

When the four of them finally woke up they all quickly realised that they were in really deep Doo Doo. First off they were all taped spread eagled to the wall bars, secondly one of the men in black was cradling the blond bitch's head in his arms, and he was sobbing quietly, thirdly another of the men in black was hugging the other bitch close to him, and she was sobbing, fourthly none of the black suits had POLICE, DEA, FBI or any other letters of the alphabet printed on the backs of them, and worst of all was number five - El Gordo's wife was sitting quietly in a chair opposite them.

\----Many years ago----

Francesca had enjoyed being brought into the world as a Liebermann, even though her mother had passed away giving birth to her. Her childhood had been idyllic, and she realised from an early age that she owed her father a lot, and so when she reached her eighteenth birthday, and her father suggested that she marry Percival Snoddgrass, an overweight business associate of his, she did so, and he moved into her room on the farm. Within a year she was 'with child', and three years later she didn't know by whom. Her dear little 'Percival the second' had been playing with his felt tips one day when an indelible marker got mixed in with them by mistake. 'Percival the first' entered the room and his son dutifully put his arms around his father's neck to give him a hug, but unfortunately the felt tip was still in his hand. Unnoticed by his father a bright orange line was left on the back of his neck, which over the next few days went away, came back, went away again, and then finally came back again, and this answered a lot of questions for Francesca. She had always thought her husband had a bit of a split personality, and wondered why he always had cast iron alibis when the Police came a-calling, even when she knew he was elsewhere, so she had a 'full, frank and meaningful' conversation with him, it was long overdue. Almost immediately he burst into tears and told her to stop shouting at him as he wasn't her husband, then he screeched 'get in here; she's giving me a headache'. It turned out that she had not only married Percival Snoddgrass, but she had also 'married' his identical twin as well, they had both been sharing her, and the house was so large that an extra room had been secretly created for the other one to reside in when 'at home' but 'not on duty'. As she looked at the twins she was amazed at how identical they really were, then she spotted the only difference, one even they didn't realise that they had, Percival had a very slight squint to his left eye, and his brother Cedric had one in his right, or was it the other way round? Percival, who was the dominant one of the pair then took charge as her father was having a holiday at the state penitentiary, and he made a command decision, his woman had to be kept in line. Francesca knew that her father had gone to pieces after her mother's death, and that the stud farm had quickly fallen into decline, with all the stallions and mares eventually being rented out to other breeders, with the proceeds and income being placed into the 'joint' account.

This should now be one of life's little lessons to us all; when you set up a 'joint' account - make sure that there are at least two names on it.

Delbert, her father, had his own bank account so he had not noticed this slight oversight, even when his wife's will had been read. She had not been happy with the way her husband had been behaving recently, getting into drugs and unsavoury company, so when she found out that she was 'with child', and there were grave complications, she secretly made a new will. The Stud Farm, horses, adjacent properties and everything else that her parents had left to her, she left to her unborn child, along with the 'joint account'; but nothing could be touched until the child reached twenty-five years of age. Her father should of course have been very upset at this situation, but unfortunately for him, and fortunately for Francesca, he was stoned out of his mine at the reading, he thought it was hilarious, and as he never made rehab he never understood the consequences of the situation.

After discovering the reality of her marriage life changed dramatically for Francesca, she was to all intent and purposes a prisoner in her own house, she could go nowhere without an 'escort'. Then her father, who had been starting to make things difficult for 'the brothers grim' had an accident in Cell block H. He slipped on a bar of soap in the showers and landed on a toothbrush, a very sharp toothbrush; very careless. Things then got even more unpleasant for Francesca when Harley was released from prison a few months later, the same prison, the same block, and the same shower that her father had been in, and moved in with them. Apparently he had never met her father, but the first thing that he stole on his release was a new toothbrush. The only thing that seemed to go right for her after that was that her husband, the one with the left squint, changed his name to El Gordo; it was much better than Percival Snoddgrass.

Fortunately for Francesca the twins, Harley, Zoomer and Percival the second were all away in Cuba collecting some merchandise on her twenty-fifth birthday (what cruel and heartless customs man was going to slice open a five year olds teddy?) when a solicitor came a-calling. Wisely she sent her minders out of earshot as it turned out that she was now a very wealthy woman in her own right, and all of it was from legally gotten gains. The Solicitor had a shrewd suspicion of what the situation was at the farm, he had represented her father and his associates on more than one occasion, so he had done his homework and had all the forms and bank details to hand, for a price of course, and once all the paperwork had been completed, and his cheque signed, he tried to persuade Francesca to return to the local town with him, she would be safe there, but unfortunately Percival the second was with Percival t... sorry El Gordo, she just could not leave without him, although over the next few years she wished she had, he turned out to be a right chip off the old block. When her husband(s) returned from their successful trip, she asked them for a belated birthday present. As they were ecstatic with the results of their trip (they had no compunction at all at gutting poor teddy), high on sampling the merchandise, and slightly embarrassed at forgetting her birthday (why, I don't know, they had never remembered one before) they readily agreed to her having a computer, what harm could it do, and so over the next twenty years Francesca not only became a self-taught computer whiz, she also became a financial and stud whiz as well. She accepted the limitations of her life style and settled down to re-assemble her mother's stud farm, electronically. She matched some of her aging breading stock with some new young blood and it proved an instant success. Her new line then created newer lines, and eventually she was acknowledged as one of the top (unseen) breeders in the Country but, as Topsy would say, 'all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy', so she started to listen to the father of her son (he had a right eyed squint) as he talked in his sleep.

The Pencil was not like his brother in one important way; he was numeric as against physical. Whilst Percival was quite happy shooting someone, either with a bullet or heroine, Cedric was more at home with a computer, and he quickly became the accountant of the 'family', so when he talked in his sleep Francesca knew what he was prattling on about, and she became almost as knowledgeable about the 'family' accounts as Cedric, then Cedric branched out and went 'on line'. The problem with dirty money is that it can cost a small fortune to clean it up (launder it), anything from ten to seventy five cents in the dollar, depending on the amount and where it came from, but Cedric accidentally came across an almost fool proof way of laundering it. He of course kept that little secret to himself, but he put it discreetly about, anonymously of course, that he had a service to offer, at a price - twenty percent. His anonymous source would arrange for $100,000 to be delivered to 'Pencil', it always had to be in $100,000 bundles, and on receipt of it he would hand over a bank book tied to a legitimate bank account with $80,000 residing in it. Of course Cedric would 'win some, lose some' when he came to the laundering the dirty $100,000 but more often than not he made a small profit, not that he was too worried about it; he was thinking of the 'bigger picture'. He knew that things could not carry on as they were forever, so he started up his 'retirement fund', not the small profit that he made on his twenty percent of the transaction, it was the other eighty percent that he was after. Every legitimate bank account that he created had installed in it a 'back door'. Computer programmers, when creating a new programme or game routinely installed 'back doors' to enable themselves to jump to specific parts, without wading through the whole programme all the time. In the ideal world these were then 'closed' when the new programme was ready for distribution, BUT IN REALITY the programmer was usually too busy on his or her next project by then and it was just forgotten about. Enter a snuff film; the Pencil was demonstrating his mastery of the said implement when a nubile young programmer related this information to him, hopefully in exchange for her life. She gave him all the details of how to get into several large banking organisations, and how to create accounts, backwards. The information didn't do her (or the cameraman) much good but it worked wonders for him. He would electronically enter a bank by his 'back door ', pick an amount ($80,000), create an account number for it, choose a fictitious name, then embed his own password in it, so that he could gain access to the whole thing, any time, and give it to some unsuspecting crook for the $100,000. Why didn't he just take ten million dollars for himself? Someone might just notice it going out. Banks were like water companies, they expected leaks, but they only really got worried when it becomes a torrent. His way, small amounts would be continuously dripping out, to different people, who had no physical or electronic connection with each other, all over the Country, and whilst some accounts would be cleaned out immediately, he could access the others (even if the new owner changed the password) at will. Several of his larger clients had many accounts, and were only withdrawing from one or two, and there were even a few who were depositing funds in them, increasing his 'nest egg' even more.

\----Back to the present----

After Francesca had been sent to her room by El Gordo she heard the usual sounds, and was pleased that she had been spared the sights, then her two regular escorts stopped escorting. This intrigued her, so she stuck her head out of the door. Jim-Bob placed a finger over her lips and guided her back into the room, ably assisted by his Uzi sub-machine gun. At first Jim-Bob, or as he was also known as - Captain J Decker of the first Ranger Battalion, United States Army (which was a close relative of the British SAS) was a bit sceptical at the calmness of this lady, but soon warmed to her when he realised that she had been waiting for something like this to happen for many years, 'and she was really glad that he had nice eyes'. He quickly found out that the two sleeping patrol persons were her minders, so 'would you please be gentle with them', and Able and Amy, who were in the next room were her 'live in' staff. They were over sixty and wouldn't hurt a fly, but the remainder of the people in the house, four of them in total were up for grabs. He didn't think that she liked them very much. Unfortunately he had to restrain the three of them, but not too tightly, and then he was eagerly off to join the Limeys, the Frenchie, and the rest of his squad to cause chaos and mayhem, but it was all a bit of an anti-climax really, Pierre could have done it all on his own. Well at least **he** , Jim-Bob, fearless US Ranger, had single handedly stopped the camera from getting damaged, and as it turned out it was very fortuitous indeed. After all the targets had been subdued he went back to talk to Francesca, he had a feeling that she WANTED to talk, but first he had a request - had she any new sheets in the house.

'In the bottom draw of the wardrobe in the master bedroom' she said, 'but why'.

Jim-Bob then explained that he wanted 'unsullied' sheets to wrap Agnetha in, and to preserve Caroline's modesty.

'Cut me loose young man' she demanded, so he did – just like that. She then led him to her bedroom, opened a draw and extracted a beautiful hand sewn sheet, it had intricate patterns all over it, and handed it to him. When she wasn't computing she was embroidering, and the sheet that she had removed had taken her years to complete. 'I hope this will go some way to making amends for my husband's actions' she said, and then took it back from him. 'Show me where she is'.

Pierre lifted Charlie gently off Agnetha and sat him down on Caroline's chair, he was in a trance. He then wrapped some towels that he had found around Agnetha, but was then at a loss what to do next, until a rather attractive lady walked into the room and took over. No one but Jim-Bob seemed to know who she was, but if it was Ok by him, he was happy. Caroline was the first to understand what this lady was going to do and disentangled herself from David.

'David, take Charlie outside' she ordered, nodding to his weapons. David understood and eased Charlie out of the chair and guided him out of the room, holding him in such a way that ensured that if he did snap out of his trance he couldn't use any of his weapons. She then got Pierre to gently carry Agnetha into the adjacent shower room, and after laying her on a massage table she dismissed him. Between them the two women, total strangers, went to work on Agnetha. First they pushed the table close to the shower and gently cleaned her; nothing was too personal, and as much evidence as possible was removed of those two animals, and once her hair had been dried and combed out, and some make-up applied to hide a few of the marks, they wrapped Agnetha tightly in the exquisite sheet until only her face, with her closed eyes could be seen. Francesca then recalled that rather nice Frenchman, and had him carry Agnetha gently to her private room, 'they never visited me here' she said, 'they always used my old room'.

Caroline did not understand the full meaning of what this woman meant but she instinctively knew that it was the right thing for Agnetha.

Charlie finally collected his thoughts, and started issuing orders, even to David, and the four main participants were taped to the wall bars, and the remainder, with the exception of Francesca were locked in a secure stable, well away from the main house; after of course first being given the opportunity of a 'comfort break'. The four miscreants were then given antidotes by Pierre and as they waited for it to have the desired affect Francesca introduced the animals to them, and briefly recounted hers and their life stories. The only time that a tear almost came anywhere near her eyes was when she spoke of her son, but he had over the years followed in his fathers and uncles (whichever way around that was) footsteps. For the last three years she had hardly even seen him, he was always out at the airfield flying aeroplanes, or ripping wings off butterflies.

Jim-Bobs act of kindness to the camera was a godsend for Charlie, so as Jim-Bob set up the equipment, David and Charlie went outside for a 'full, frank and meaningful' conversation. David knew just what Agnetha had meant to Charlie, and he understood what was going through Charlie's mind, sod 'turn the other cheek', it was time for 'an eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth', and nothing that he could say would change it. He pitied the four thugs, not a lot, but a little.

Once Francesca had finished relating her story, and each of the now conscious four men had added their own two-penn'th (Zoomer's second person vernacular was very enlightening), she was taken to join her friends. Her parting comment to Charlie was, 'it has been a pleasure never to have met you', which implied that what she and the other prisoners would be telling the police would not quite be _'the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth'_. What she said to Pierre, in French, made him blush, but he eagerly nodded his agreement.

One of the Rangers had found the farms garage, and parked an SUV outside the main door, alongside the two Black Hawks which, once the excitement had calmed down had 'relocated' to be closer to their passengers, and after a tear stained Caroline gave Charlie a big hug and a kiss, and David, Pierre and the Rangers had shaken his hand, they climbed into the waiting Black Hawks and disappeared off into the distance (plausible deniability). The SUV was for Charlie and Agnetha.

'Where have the rest of the losers gone you moron' Zoomer (one) asked, as Charlie switched on the camera and sound equipment. In reply Charlie pulled out his Magnum .50 Desert Eagle gas operated semi-automatic pistol (he preferred the Israeli version), and placed its large black hole between Zoomer's eyes. That shut him up, but not Harley.

'Hey ****head when are you going to 'Miranda' us', he was starting to get a little bit worried at the lack of letters on the back of Charlie's overalls.

' _You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?'_ Charlie recited; his favourite TV program was CSI Miami. Then, to the obvious delight of both Zoomer's he lowered his pistol, but not all the way down. 'BANG' and Zoomer's 'wedding tackle' (another one of Topsy's favourite sayings) was spread all over the back of the wall bars.

'Oop's', Charlie said.

As his screams slowly subsided, in direct proportion to the amount of blood pouring onto the floor, it then dawned on the other three that the only thing that was in doubt here was 'how' they were going to die. Harley was the first to be forthcoming; he had been ripping off the twins for years, so he explained explicitly where all his ill-gotten gains were secreted – hopefully in mitigation for his behaviour. Charlie quickly relocated the said ill-gotten gains into a rucksack, as he had now 'passed that point of no return' and would need funds to live on, although according to Francesca this would only be loose change. Once he was satisfied that Harley had nothing further to contribute to the proceedings Charlie exchanged his Desert Eagle for his K-Bar and slid its point inside the top of Harley's shirt, and then slowly pulled it down. First the front of Harley's shirt parted, and then his belt, and finally his trousers fell to the floor, or as far as his spread-eagled legs would allow. Harley must then have had a revelation as he clamped his mouth tightly shut, started to shake his head back and forth, and whine. Charlie locked eyes with him and reached down with his free hand. He reversed the K-bar and with one swift stroke he ruined Harley's chances of becoming a father, permanently. Harley's eyes and mouth opened wide, but the scream that was about to emit from the gaping orifice was stifled, Charlie rammed Harleys 'pride and two joys' into his open mouth, and then pinched his nose. After all movement had ceased he turned to the brothers, 'see, I can be bought, I wasn't going to pinch his nose'. It was at this stage of the game that he was glad of the camera, or at least the microphones as the Pencil, perhaps not surprisingly poured forth all the details on his 'pension funds', as well as his and his brothers accounts, both on and off shore, along with how to access all the information on his laptop. There was one small problem though; the laptop had a fingerprint reader on it. When Charlie told him 'his' solution to that problem, instructions on how to disable the reader were quickly forthcoming. Charlie didn't think that there was much left for El Gordo to barter with but no, he was full of surprises. 'How do you think we got away so easily? Half the police are in our pockets'. Then he spilled the beans, big time, and in glorious Technicolor. Once all the vocalising had been concluded both twins whinged that they wanted to be shot in the head,

'Me first please',

'No me first please.

A reasonable enough request from both of them, it would be a relatively pain free demise, but then Charlie thought of what one brother had done to his Agnetha, and what the other one was about to do to Caroline, so he walked slowly into the kitchen and selected two very sharp knives. On return to the gymnasium he walked up to the brothers (they were side by side on the bars), inserted the knives, and slowly pulled them up - and then watched in amazement as the entrails of both brothers entwined on the floor, slowly twisting around long after their owners had expired.

~~~~

Chapter 9

When I heard over my phone that the situation was under control I was both elated and saddened at the outcome, then I got a surprise. 'Boss' Charlie asked 'can I ask you for a favour, please don't inform either the Chief of Police or the local police hereabouts just yet.' Harry had an inkling of what was going on but kept his mouth shut, and when the Black Hawks finally lifted off from the stud farm I thought it was virtually over, but then the lead pilot told us that Charlie, with Agnetha had been left behind, so we continued to wait, and eventually Charlie rang me again on my direct number

'Could he have a word with Harry and me in private'? By now he was on the other side of the valley from the stud farm, and had just watched the local police enter it and release Francesca and her companions; he had given them an anonymous tip off that shots had been heard coming from the farm. 'Harry, do you know of any discreet undertakers' he continued, 'I need Agnetha to be properly cremated so that her parents can have something to mourn', and then went on to explain why he would not be returning to me, ever, and why money was now not going to be a problem for him, fortunately not in too much detail (plausible deniability), although perhaps he could contact Harry in the future to discuss similar situations'. He was now outside the law, but he didn't consider himself to be a criminal in the accepted sense of the word, perhaps he could be 'useful to him'; then he related what El Gordo had told him.

From the comfort of his local bar a doctor with a shiny red nose certified that Agnetha had died from injuries received in a road traffic accident, he thought it would be a terrible waste of drinking time to actually view her body, and so that evening, after sitting alone through Agnetha's 'after hours' cremation service (Agnetha's religion apparently stated that her funeral should take place as soon as possible after death, usually immediately following a $50,000 cash donation to the charity of the undertakers choice) Charlie sat in an obscure motel room, on the road to nowhere in particular. He played back the audio side of the recording that he had made, noting down the instructions and then scoured the Pencils computer. On the way to the motel he had stopped twice, once for a change of clothes and then at a late night multi Media store to purchase a laser printer and fax machine. Just after two o'clock in the morning his new fax machine started earning its keep, and three hours later I rang the Chief of Police's home number (courtesy of Harry) and woke him up.

'Good morning Chief, I hope I haven't woken you up, I just thought that you should know that Caroline and Agnetha have both turned up safe and well, it was joy riders. I have spoken to their parents and all's well that ends well'.

Now that did wake him up.

Two days later, just before the Lady S was about to set sail, I held a press conference, well it was a press conference to the press, but to the Chief of Police and three of his senior staff it was a 'free lunch'. At first he politely refused, he had heard what had happened to El Gordo and didn't believe one little bit the story about 'rival drug gangs' that was doing the rounds, but when I told him that he would be seated between the Governor and the Mayor his sense of fear left him; just think of the photo opportunity.

First off, before the press con.... sorry the lunch, it was drinky poo's time and Chiefy thought it was a bit odd that the Governor, the Mayor, the Attorney General, the Head of Internal Affairs and some of his Officers didn't seem at all that happy to see him, as he, his Deputy, the Head of Traffic and the Head of the Aviation Division strutted in.

'Take a seat please' I told them (mentally reminding myself to do a seat count later), and then when they were all seated (I had lied about him sitting between the Governor and the Mayor, it was between two Internal Affairs Officers, but I'd had my fingers crossed behind my back at the time so it wasn't a real lie) I continued, 'Remember what I said about holding you personally responsible for the safety of Caroline and Agnetha' I said.

'Yes' he muttered 'but what's the problem, you told me yourself that they are both safe and well.

'I lied', I said, and suddenly the room was full of deaf people.

I slid four envelopes across the table and instructed them to open them, and after reading what was enclosed within for a few minutes, his three colleagues very carefully, using fingertips only, removed their weapons and laid them on the table, accompanied a few seconds later by their shields. They then slowly stood up, were handcuffed and led away, then the chief (I purposefully used a lower case c) asked what I had in store for him.

'First off' interrupted the Head of Internal Affairs, **'Weapon and shield on the table - now'**.

Slowly the soon to be ex-chief of police opened his jacket, 'I employ other people to carry the guns', and then he removed his shield from his belt and placed it on the table.

The Governor then stood and took over, 'If I may Mr Michaels, first off everything that has gone on in this room is 'off the record', right', and everyone nodded, so he continued. 'Mr Michaels has brought certain information to my attention that cannot be overlooked, but he has requested that these proceeding take place here on the Lady S for, as he freely admits, his own personal gratification - before he provides the hard evidence, and in the circumstances I believe that it is a reasonable request', and then he continued. 'Mr Stumpen (no wonder he liked 'Chief' better), the dismissal of your senior officers can be disguised in the short term as routine administrative re-assignments, but unfortunately your removal cannot come under that heading. To save your family any short term embarrassment Mr Michaels has agreed that you may publicly resign, although of course you will be under arrest as you do this. Do you agree to this?'

Twenty minutes later ex-Chief Stumpen, totally humiliated at the news conference (the press had not believed a word that he said) walked down the Lady S's gangway 'accompanied' by two IAD Officers. As he walked towards the marina exit (for some obscure reason the IAD cars had had to park outside the marina as the half empty car park inside was apparently full) he stopped, turned, and looked up in my direction - then before anyone could react he bent down, pulled a small back-up 'piece' from an ankle holster placed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The calibre of the revolver was so small that the bullet did not have the velocity to exit the back of his skull, it just rattled around inside for a while, but it still had the desired effect.

As I looked on I couldn't work up any sorrow for the man, shock yes but not sorrow, then I looked in the direction of marina main entrance, just in time to see an SUV, with heavily tinted windows and dirty, unreadable plates, pull away into the traffic. When I had said to Charlie over the phone that I owed him my life, twice over, and if there was absolutely anything that I could do for him, just ask, he asked - but ex-Chief of Police Stumpen's small calibre revolver had just saved him the job.

The excitement sort of went out of my holiday after that, Sir Richard B and David C would just have to wait a little longer for the honour of my company, and so the next day Teddy came to collect me; I just wasn't in the mood to socialise, or cheerfully wave back at the crowds when I was out in public. What I was in dire need of was a bit of Hunter therapy.

~~~~

Chapter 10

I had been back at El Campo for three days when I found out that I had upset someone big time in the good old U.S of A, although it really wasn't a person (singular), it was the FBI, apparently they had just got hold of the 'unofficial' story of the incident. First they were furious that they hadn't been called in for the 'kidnapping that never was', that was within their remit. That had got nothing to do with me I pointed out, that had been Chief Stumpen's decision - but as he was now dead apparently I was the next in line. Why, because I had authorised an 'across a State line' operation (that had never happened), and again it was their 'part of ship', sorry, within their remit. Francesca and her merry band were gamely sticking firmly to their stories, but someone on my side must have leaked it the FBI as they now had Charlie's name. He was now on the top of the FBI's 'unofficial' most wanted list. My staff and I were being protected by a ring of highly paid Attorneys, and Charlie, if he didn't want to be found, wouldn't be, but they had found Agnetha - in a UPS box, Charlie had been sending her home to her parents. What use an urn full of ash could be to them I just didn't know, perhaps it was a macabre attempt to try and flush Charlie out in some way, but they didn't know about my little black book; not the electric one - the paper one, which I kept well and truly securely locked away, and under H, for HRH, I found his 'personal' number. As he had been leaving after spending a very relaxing long week-end with Sandra and me in late February he had given it to me, just in case. This was definitely a 'just in case' case.

\--------------------

Early on in January one of HRH's grey suits had arrived at El Campo and tried to rip us to pieces, security wise. David was ready to shoot him and hide the body in a motorway flyover as he explained for the umpteenth time about the electronic surveillance at El Campo, but it just wasn't going in, and a week after the grey suit had left El Campo, muttering to himself about 'child's play', I was woken at two o'clock in the morning, not by someone ringing me but by David clamping my arm to my side. 'Don't switch on the light' he said 'we have a situation', but there was a chuckle in his voice', apparently we had been invaded, but he knew by whom, it was the SAS, so I left Sandra sleeping like a baby as I looked for my brown trousers, and then he went on to explain; after the suit had departed he was sure that something like this was going to happen, and sure enough it must have gone whinging to the Army about how lax security was at El Campo, and 'could they do something to prove to HRH how dangerous it was in that desolate third world Country' - he really was cruising for a bruising. The SAS had obviously got the job, sorry 'training exercise', and carried out a 'halo' parachute drop into El Campo. There were four of them on the 'exercise' and they had been spotted ever before they landed, the suit hadn't taken in a word that David had said. The duty security team had been instructed to inform David if anything like this happened, rather than charge in - all guns blazing, and this is where Scott comes in. David had mentioned to Scott about the new-fangled radios that he had used in Afghanistan, not giving away any national secrets of course, and Scott bet him that he could crack the system in a week; it had taken him four days, so as David listened out on his pirate radio he quickly realised who was out there, it was Captain, now Major, Cummins, the second in command of that fateful Afghan detachment (and the one who had bubbled him to the hierarchy), he had obviously gotten his thirty pieces of silver, his old mate Dennis, and two new Squaddies that he didn't know, although one of them had made a bad landing and damaged his ankle. David wanted his pound of flesh (or was it now a kilo?) but didn't want the rest to suffer, especially the young Squaddie with the gammy ankle. Major Cummings was insisting that this was a 'realistic' exercise so 'just shut up and follow procedure', and so Charlie was dispatched to bring the Squaddie in, with, as it turned out, a broken ankle, via the Centro Salud in San Miguel. As they x-rayed and plastered his ankle he carried out his routine radio checks with the Major, still complaining bitterly, but now with a smile on his face. After he'd had a shower and Caroline had found him a change of clothes, the Squaddie was shown into my personal study. It had no windows in it so no light would shine out, and eventually he was joined by the other two reluctant volunteers for the mission, both freshly showered and changed, and they all kept up their periodic radio checks with the Major for the remainder of the night. Charlie had frightened the life out of all three of them when he had whispering to them, his mouth only inches from their faces 'bang, bang you're dead, so please don't use your radio.

When it was realised that Major Cummings was the 'whistle blower' he suddenly became very unpopular with the rest of the regiment, but he wouldn't take the hint and resign, and Colonel Jameson just didn't have enough hard evidence to 'push' him, so when the special exercise involving David was conceived he rang 'the Colonel', confidentially of course, for some advice, and the advice that he got was 'send Cummings' – although the Colonel 'failed' to mention the equipment that he knew to be at El Campo. As an independent witness WO2 Dennis Farthing was volunteered to go along, along with two new guys, for the experience.

As the sun rose slowly into the sky David was all for letting the Major really suffer, but I put my foot down and walked out onto my balcony, once I had been 'assassinated' then the exercise would be over. The Major went ballistic over the radio 'we've got him, we've got him' he screeched, whilst peering down his snipers scope, and then quickly shut up as Dennis and the two Squaddies joined me. I lifted my mobile phone and pressed 'call', and according to Charlie, who was watching him through David's sniper scope, the fearless Major Cummings leapt about a foot into the air. Charlie had placed a mobile phone at the side of his head, almost touching him, with 'Reveille' as the ring tone. When he finally answered it, at my third attempt, I said 'bang, bang you're dead; now what would you like for breakfast?' His reply was unprintable, and two hours later a 'special duties' Royal Air Force Hercules touched down and collected Dennis and the Squaddies from my front door, and then taxied around to the middle of the airfield to pick up Major Cummings; and of course he hadn't touched the breakfast that I had sent out to him. Apparently he had broken a stack of standing orders, especially the one about injuries received whilst on training exercises, so he was given the choice, 'jump or be pushed', he jumped, and Scott got a classified contract with the Army.

'Whatever happened to the suit?' I hear you ask, the same thing, 'jump or be pushed'. Colonel Jameson was not at all pleased that he had been put in a 'no win' situation. If he had known what he was really up against he would have tried to handle it differently.

\--------------------

Now where were we? Oh yes, HRH. 'Do you have any contacts 'over there'' I asked him, 'and if so could you please have a quiet word with them to try and sort this debacle out'.

'Certainly Andrew, no problemo (?). Oh! and Cammy was pondering only the other day when we might be imbibing the sun's rays, Spanish style - perhaps after the summer rush?'

Blackmail noted and accepted I sat back and waited.

Two hours later my phone rang, it was the President of the United States of America, and he had just had his ear bent by the Secretary-General of the United Nations, and he was just calling to let me know that:-

1. The Director of the FBI now had another rectal orifice,

2. That Agnetha was safely in a diplomatic pouch, and on her way to Sweden and that

3. He had a few days clear after the G8 summit in a couple of months' time, oh and

4. Did I realise that the Secretary-General was very partial to southern Spain?

Me thinks I should rename my home 'Hotel El Campo'. 'Mrs Blake, make up the spare z-beds please'.

Within a few days I had an invitation from Agnetha's parents to attend their daughters 'laying to rest' and I let it be known around the place that anyone that would like to, would be more than welcome to accompany me to the service, an so two days later one hundred and twenty-seven people and I climbed aboard an Airbus 320 and flew to Sweden. Marcus had been sent off the day before with the simple instruction, 'find one hundred and twenty-eight 'bed and breakfasts' by tomorrow please. I think he was starting to get a bit peeved at these missions as I suddenly became the proud owner of one the best hotels in Sweden. I think Agnetha's mum and dad were also a bit worried about all their daughter's friends descending on their small coastal community, situated a few kilometres outside Gothenburg, but Marcus had been a 'busy little bee' organising a fleet of small coaches to ferry everyone around, plus books of free tickets to the Liseberg Amusement Park for those that wished to celebrate Agnetha's short life perhaps a little bit more energetically. I spent the evening entertaining Agnetha's parents and siblings in 'my' hotel; they were lovely people who I would have met in a few weeks' time anyway, but under happier circumstances at Agnetha and Charlie's wedding, but during the evening I took Agnetha's Mum and Dad aside and had a quiet word with them (with Maria interpreting), Charlie had asked me for another favour. They were simple folk, in the nicest possible way, and his fiancé had been sending them money each month to help them out, but of course that would now stop. He himself was now in a position to send them money but it would be 'dirty' money, and he didn't think it was right for them to have to live on 'drug money', they were just too nice a couple, and so could I possibly help?

Of course I could, I was sure that there was a Company insurance policy laying around somewhere gathering dust that stated that if a member of staff died in service then their beneficiaries would be entitled to a lump sum payment, plus a monthly payment equal to the member of staffs inflation proofed salary. As Agnetha had been escorting a senior member of my staff on a secret mission to collect essential supplies (Cindy's tee-shirt) she was eligible for this payment, so I handed her father a cheque for the lump sum of _think of a number and double it_ , and explained that they would be receiving Agnetha's full salary every month, until the two of them eventually joined her, it was a small price for me to pay, as the only reason that Agnetha had died such a horrible death was that she worked for me.

'Maria, if there isn't such a policy in existence for everyone else then find one'.

I then had a quieter quiet word with Agnetha's father about Charlie's death (?); they had thought that their daughter had died in a traffic accident, but I hinted that that might not be the entire truth, they might just hear a different scenario, and it would be very convenient if Charlie could die at tomorrow's service \- overcome with grief.

The FBI agents were scouring the crowds, but with hundreds of mourners attending the service they were not having very much success; until just after Agnetha's ashes had been scattered to the winds, suddenly, high above the mourners a lone figure stood on a ledge, head bowed, and in full view of everyone, and just in case the FBI agents missed him we all waved up at him. Charlie had a heads start on the Agents as they panted their way up the pathway, so he was way ahead of them when he disappeared around the craggy headland, but it didn't worry the Agents one little bit, they had done their homework well, this was the only path up to the viewing point at the top. Suddenly a shot rang out and they increased their pace, but when they reached the top all they found was Charlie's gun (obviously with his fingerprints on it) and blood splattered all over the edge of the shear drop into the rock strewn sea below. They knew of course that the blood would match Charles Watkins perfectly, so they didn't bother to look very hard for bone fragments or gooey brain tissue, which was fortunate as they would have found that the Director of the FBI himself would have considered it an unnecessary waste of tax dollars to have them analysed, if they had miraculously found any.

As David and I looked over the edge of the cliff, just idly checking that there were no empty bottles of blood lying about (as one does), he quietly commented to me that it was surprising that Charlie had made such a messy job of his own demise, he was normally such a fastidious person.

'And such a good parachutist to boot', I added.

~~~~

Chapter 11

On my return to El Campo life slowly settled down again, and a few weeks later I had a surprise visitor, it was Inma's mother. Inma had gone solo in one of my Cessna Skyhawk's a while ago, and now she could take passengers up for the first time, so who was her first passenger to be, her mother of course. Her mother, who had never been in an aeroplane before in her entire life, had spent the whole flight gazing in amazement at her clever daughter's face. She had always known her place in life, but when her daughter had first spoken confidently into the aircrafts microphone, and somebody had actually politely answered her (it was Chalky), followed by a 'hi mum, have a nice flight' her world changed forever. She had, up until that moment, never believed that people like 'them' could actually fly an aeroplane all by themselves, deep down she had believed that that nice Mr Heslop was behind the scenes aiding her, and so as her daughter confidently taxied up to the hangar doors after the flight, and a mechanic came up and asked her daughter if he could look after the aircraft for her, her mother made a monumental decision, she would pluck up all her courage and go and thank that nice Mr Michaels personally. Inma was shocked; this was most un-motherly like, but still Inma led the way into Mi Casa, through the front doors god forbid, and headed for Maria's office.

'Yes' Maria said, 'Andrew ('Inma, surely you call him Mr Michaels') was in his office; go straight in' (what, no appointment).

Ten minutes later, after Maria had taken a photograph of me presenting her daughter with her flying licence (in the guise of a rolled up magazine), and the obligatory one with her mum in the photo as well, Inma and her mother, arm in arm, were off back to their apartment in San Miguel, and 'no' they didn't require a lift 'thank you very much', they enjoyed walking together.

Fifteen minutes later Carlos rang me; there had been a terrible accident on the new roundabout at the bottom of the road leading up to El Campo, and it involved Inma and her mother.

'Have you rung Doc Martin', I had seen her a little while ago going into her 'well woman' clinic.

'Yes, and the Ambulance, and the Police, and one of our cameras has caught it all on disc'. David had insisted that a camera was always pointing down the entrance road, just in case. It was always handy to have visual evidence to back you up, if there was ever a problem, but even he hadn't envisaged something like this happening, and by the time I arrived at the roundabout Doc Martin and several of the other Doctors from the Centro Salud, including Doctora Botella were working on Inma, but her mother was covered with a sheet.

The Ayuntamiento (Town Hall) had recently constructed a roundabout at the bottom of our drive, as a sort of thank you for all the things that I was doing around the Pueblo, but obviously the very elderly gentleman who delivered to the ferreteria (hardware store) had never come across it before. He had been going too fast, and his load had not been secured properly so when he suddenly found himself running out of road he did a double swerve, the first one loosened a pile of scaffolding poles in the back, and the second one catapulted them off the lorry, and into Inma and her mother. Her mother had died instantaneously, and but for Doc Martin and the other Medico's Inma would have quickly followed. One scaffolding pole had slammed into the small of her back and another one had caught the back of her head. She was in a mess but fortunately the Cruz Roja (Red Cross) helicopter was in the air, returning from another emergency, so after dropping its medics off it quickly went and topped up its tank at El Campo, and then came back and landed beside the roundabout. Inma was gently loaded into the machine, and then it was swiftly on its way to the nearby hospital, along with Doc's Martin and Botella.

A few minutes later, as I sadly watched the crew carefully lift Inma's mother into the back of their Ambulance, a Guardia Civil Officer started asking about 'next of kin' details, and all eyes turned to me, and I realised that I, and all at El Campo were now Inma's next of kin, apparently she now had no one else. Thomas, Carlos's deputy stepped in and took over, his wife's mother had recently passed away so he knew the routine, and he also realised that what happened to Inma's mothers earthly remains now, those important final hours, would be lost to Inma, she was unconscious, and likely to be so for some considerable time, so he sorted out the Guardia Civil Officers, and instructed the Ambulance Paramedics to use a local undertaker for Inma's mother, and then he took out his mobile and rang his brother-in-law; he was the Pueblo's foremost photographer.

A few hours later I visited the hospital where Inma was, and it certainly bought back some vivid memories for me. As I sat there with Caroline, she was brought out of theatre, she was alive but still in a critical condition, and if she survived at all it was clear to the surgeons that she would never walk again, so I contacted my old team at the Hospital (that thought it was a hotel) and gave them some very explicit instructions. Over the next few weeks it would be text book co-operation between the public and private sectors, or else. I hadn't realised it but Inma was one of my 'founder members', and as such she was someone very special to me, we had been through a lot together but we always came out of the other side with smiles on our faces, she had that sort of effect on everyone, so I made it perfectly clear to all and sundry that Inma had medical cover like no one else had ever had; she was their number one priority.

Two weeks later Inma, although still very poorly, was now off the critical list, and her medication was slowly being reduced, just enough so that she could be told about her mother. Her friends had quickly arranged an around the clock bed watch for her, this after all was Spain, but somehow she was still unaware of her mother's demise, that, apparently was going to be left to me to tell her, and I was not looking forward to it in the slightest. It must have been how Maria, Caroline and I walked in, because she picked up on something and immediately started sobbing. I took her hand and tried to break the news to her as gently as I could but she was beside herself with grief, until Thomas came to my rescue. His brother-in-law had, immediately after Thomas's phone call, started recording everything that happened to her mother on his video camera, everything that Inma should have been involved in was recorded for her to watch, the preparation of her mother's body, the all-night vigil at the funeral directors, and the funeral procession. I swore to her that I had nothing to do with the turnout on her mother's final earthly journey, yes I was there, but I was swallowed up in the crowds. San Miguel del Mar came to a standstill for her mother. Inma had never realised that San Miguellians now held her mother in such high esteem; she had definitely worked off the stigma of being a single parent. Thomas's brother-in-law had utilised footage from El Campo's security discs (not the gory bits), and at least two other cameramen, to professionally edit it all onto two discs, one lasting about ten minutes, the other lasting two hours. I held Inma's hand as we watched the expurgated ten minute version on a wide screen television, she of course cried all the way through it but at the end she was smiling as well, which is a very hard thing to do. One good thing about Inma's situation was that I had been there only three years before, perhaps not exactly the same but close enough to understand how she was feeling, so I sat there and let her pour out all of her grief, troubles, and worst nightmares, it had to all come out, and so I decided to be there for her, as Alice and Robin had been there for me. Maria and Caroline aided me and the three of us spent the whole night just talking to her, and being there for her. We watched the short video over and over again, and finally it sank into her that she really wasn't all alone, and so by breakfast-time she was over the worst of her grief, and as we left her in the capable hands of one of my other maids, Carla, we even got a kiss and a smile. All that we had had during the night were cat naps and endless cups of coffee, so when I got back to Mi Casa it was straight to bed, but at one o'clock I was woken up by my phone jangling away on the bedside table, it was Vicente, and he needed to see me urgently.

It really wasn't Inma's time at all; as we had been consoling her last evening 'person or persons unknown' had broken into her and her mother's apartment and totally and utterly trashed it, there was virtually nothing left in one piece, but why was Vicente involved. The 'Police Local' had routinely contacted Carlos as the representative of her employer, and he had contacted Vicente, not because of the trashing, that really was a police matter, but because of a letter that Carlos and Pierre had found when they visited the scene of wonton destruction a little later on. One of the few things that had conveniently survived was a letter from Inma's mothers' landlord, giving Inma thirty days to vacate the apartment. The lease was in her mothers' name and there was a 'no right of succession' clause in it. Of course Vicente scrutinized the lease but it was watertight, although he still managed to put the fear of god in the landlord, he may have gotten away with this 'eviction', but never again, Vicente arranged for a company of Private Investigators to go through the landlords holding like a dose of salts. By three o'clock I was up, abluted, dressed, fed and sitting at the head of my conference table, I had called an emergency meeting of the 'A' team. Maria, David, Caroline, Carol, Mrs Blake, Eddy, Teddy and Marcel studied the only item on the agenda - Inma. Now was the time for positive thinking, and by six o'clock I had Inma's new contract in front of me. Everyone agreed that she was genuinely wasted as a maid, and that she would definitely be more suited to the position of Deputy Housekeeper (Mrs Blake suggested that), and Chief Purser when I was embarked on the Lady S (Carol suggested that). She would now qualify for a specially adapted company car (Caroline suggested that), and should be allocated the use of one of the Senior Staff suites (David suggested that), or one of my apartments in San Miguel (I suggested that). Both the suite and apartment should be adapted for wheel chair use (Eddy suggested that), and that 'I' should look into a 'wheelchair adaptable' aircraft (Teddy suggested that), and that a special hamper of her favourite foods should be taken into the hospital (Maria suggested that, but Marcel went off to assemble it). I had not been too worried when Carol had suggested that Inma take on the Chief Pursers position on the Lady S, all decks above the waterline were 'wheelchair friendly'.

Eight o'clock that evening I was back in Inma's room, she'd had a fairly comfortable day considering the news that she'd had from me the previous evening, and of course she now knew all about the apartment as the Police Local had been to see her, briefly, but I could see that she was building up for another teary session. I sat down and held her hand, asked her how her day had been, and she promptly burst into tears, I seemed to be having that effect on people lately. When I could get a word in edgeways I asked her what, apart from her mother, were the tears about.

'How about being homeless and out of a job for starters' she moaned, she was definitely in 'self-pitying' mode.

'Why are you out of a job?' I asked.

'What use is a paraplegic house maid to you' she bleated out, but there was a bit of the old fire returning and she knew me well enough by now to know that I had something up my sleeve.

'That's quite right' I said, 'but I haven't got one'.

'So you've sacked me already have you' she snapped back (she was definitely out of her 'self-pitying' mode now).

'Why on earth would I want to sack my Deputy Housekeeper?' I said, and plonked an envelope in her hand. She opened it, read the enclosed contract, and burst into tears again; I really will have to work on my people skills. We chatted about her new positions for a little while, until fortuitously a consultant came a visiting, he must have heard that I was in town. 'The prognosis please' I asked (patient confidentiality goes out of the window when you pay the bills). Inma was making a remarkable recovery, the swelling had now gone down in her brain, but she was right, she would be a paraplegic, although with a little help from a small machine she would hopefully have normal bowel movements (TMI, TMI {too much information}), so no little accidents. Within the next couple of weeks she should be off to my old hospital for some serious rehabilitation (by helicopter of course), which would, with luck, take about three or four months. She should then be able to return to El Campo, hopefully in time for Christmas, although it would still be a further few months before she would be ready to start her new roles full time, he had obviously never met Inma before. I think that I left her in a better frame of mind than when I arrived, so I made my weary way down to the entrance of the hospital, with James traipsing along behind me, to try and find Russell, not that I usually had any trouble finding Russell, I just had to find the nearest 'no parking' zone.

Russell seemed to appear overnight, one minute he wasn't there, the next he had always been there; he had been one of Paul's finds. A year or so before he had received my fateful phone call at Monastery Housing Association, Paul had been walking through its front office and noticed that a most of the receptionists and Housing Officers were hanging on to their desks for grim death, it wasn't a virus, it was a tenant. Mr Russell Hobbs, of 25 Ironside Gardens had just been in to ask if there was a garage available for him to rent, not just any old garage mind you, but a very large garage, that could take his Rolls Royce. Russell's parents had had a wicked sense of humour when they named him, and he frequently wished that they had both been put down at his birth. Following a very traumatic childhood he joined the Army, but that was even worse than the school playground, so as soon as he could he left, but with a driving licence and several specialist driving courses under his belt, and quickly obtained a position as His Lordship's driver, and as His Lordship only ever called him Hobbs he was quite happy with the situation, and this carried on for many a fine year, until a new maid arrived. His Lordship took one look at her attributes and promptly had a heart attack. In his will he left Russell, sorry Hobbs, the Rolls, no money for its upkeep mind you, just the Rolls Royce. Russell had been on the local Housing Associations waiting list for more than enough years so they re-housed him immediately, as his 'tied accommodation' had suddenly become un-tied, when His Lordship expired. He was allocated a lovely little flat in Ironside Gardens but the Roller was the problem. Initially he kept it at the local under-takers, but the rent was astronomical, so he started up a business 'doing' weddings and then running the newlyweds to the airport, and he also picked up a few trips to 'posh' do's, and in the beginning he did alright, but the garage rental was slowly but surely eating into his profits. Eventually, in desperation he thought 'Monastery Housing might have garages to rent, and if they do perhaps they have a large one going spare', so one afternoon, as he was in the neighbourhood, he popped in, he had nothing to lose after all. As he left the Housing Associations offices the laughter followed him halfway down the street, but he was used to laughter, but when he finally got home there was a car parked outside his block of flats and a 'man from the Association' was ringing his door bell, it was Paul. He had a disused store room close to Ironside Gardens, 'if they did it up, would he like it?' Eureka! 'He who laughs last, laughs longest'.

All went well for a year or so but then competition and high overheads slowly put him out of business and he had to go onto Housing Benefit, but that didn't cover the garage rental, and one of the last things that Paul got before he left for Spain was a 'thank you very much' note from the area Housing Officer; Mr Hobbs's garage rent was now in substantial arrears.

After Paul had settled down in Spain, and had a few minutes to spare, he would have a 'chin wag' with David, and on one particular occasion he related this amusing little anecdote to him, finishing with 'it's a pity he's having such a hard time of it, he's a very nice chap really'. Apparently I then agreed to it, and he was quickly recruited as my chauffer, not just any old chauffer, but a 'defensive driving, aggressive driving, high speed driving, spinning the car round in its own length type of driver'. His Army training was going to come in handy after all, and his Roller was now in my garage gathering dust, and I wasn't even charging him any rent, more fool me, but there again I did have the bragging rights. How many other billionaires could say that their chauffeur had his very own 'chauffeur' driven Rolls Royce, even if he did have to drive it himself.(?)

Russ just loved my Maybach 62 (Daimler AG), although in his opinion it was of course not quite as nice as his Roller, but it was pretty close, and as we wound our way back to El Campo, of course by a different route every time I left the hospital, we approached 'that' roundabout and I noticed, in my half asleep state, a demonstration going on outside El Campo's gates, and it seemed to involve everyone that I employed, and their families. As we slowly entered the throng it became obvious that it was a friendly demonstration. Word it seemed had gotten out about how I had treated Inma, and somebody had wanted to shake me by the hand, and it had sort of snowballed. I slid the sun roof back and stood up in its opening, and I felt like royalty, or even more important - like a soccer star, everyone seemed to want to give me a 'high five' as I slipped gracefully by. When I finally arrived at the top of the drive I vacated the Maybach and approached David, 'well' he said 'it looks as though it's official now, you can walk on water', obviously they all approved of my style of management. I sneaked a quick glance at my Rolex, it was nearly eleven o'clock at night, so what do you do with a crowd this size (it seemed like the five thousand), obviously you have to feed them, so I searched the crowd for a patch of white, the kitchen staff, found it, and there he was - Marcel. I wondered if he would remember the training exercise that I'd had with him a little while ago? So I held up my hand for a bit of hush, and as the decibels subsided slightly I shouted 'MARCEL – WHAT TIME IS IT?' A look of puzzlement momentarily came over his face, and then he flung his arms in the air and shouted back, in his best Australian accent, 'IT'S BARBY TIME'.

Out came the loaves, fishes, steaks, beef burgers, chicken bit and pieces and everything else that goes towards having a midnight 'barby', and an hour later I was stood there in my bra, panties and fish net stockings (they were imprinted on the front of my apron, someone was definitely going to be out of a job mańana) dishing out the 'scran' with John. Not only had I inherited Topsy with three of my aircraft, I had also inherited his barbeque. He had 'found' a 45 gallon oil drum, cut it in half and converted it into a Barbecue; it was basic, but perfect, and it turned out to be much more popular than the gas barby's, the charcoal barby's, and the spit roaster that were also mass producing goodies, it might just have had something to do with all the added flavouring that had congealed on the grill over the years, then around one-thirty, after I had converted the heathen masses to barbequed bananas' _,_ _(place whole bananas on the grill, and turn frequently. When the skins start to bubble, split along their length with a fork. Slowly mush the insides with a tea spoon until perfect, and then pour the tipple of the consumers' choice over it (or insert chocolate buttons in it for the womenfolk). Serve with squirty cream, eat, and you are now ready to meet your maker)_ , I went 'walkabout', first I watched Natasha trying to teach a group of teenagers the 'Cossack dance', then I joined in a sing along, in about four different languages, with one the permanent crew of the Lady S, who was doing a 'fair to middling' job at throttling a 'squeeze box', and then without any warning whatsoever it happened; I heard a spine chilling scream, followed by an evil, satanic laugh. This was the Country that had bull fighting as family entertainment so as I rushed towards the crowded table from whence these evil sounds were emanating, my imagination was well into overdrive. I barged my way to the front of that heaving mass of humanity, but I was too late, my worst nightmares were realised – Topsy had introduced uckers to the masses.

~~~~

Chapter 12

When I said that I had nineteen Hawker Hunters, I lied (I am getting good at crossing my fingers); I had nineteen and a quarter, and early in September, after a consolation 'Med' cruise on the Lady S I stood with my pilots, ground crew and a smattering of other interested parties outside of 'Yankee' hangar. As we all gazed on, a lorry was escorted from the main gate, and the poor driver was terrified, 'what ever had he done' he thought. As he pulled up Topsy and a crew swept in and a crane lifted the container off the flatbed trailer and lowered it gently to the ground. Topsy then flung open the end doors and just inside we could make out the gleaming nose of a Mark 6D Hawker Hunter.

\--------------------

Just before my cut short Caribbean cruise, I had been summoned by the Civil Aviation Authority to CAA House, Kingsway, in London – apparently I was a very naughty boy. I was blithely converting a shed load of different marks of Hunters to my own personal sub-specification, and as all my aircraft were to have UK registration this was not allowed, not without their permission anyway, enter their grey suits. After two days of haggling they finally created two new variants of Hawker Hunter, the Mark 6D for the single seaters (I couldn't call them 'F' (for fighter) as they now had no guns), and the Mark 7D for the two seaters, as all the different variants that I had collected would be de-Navalised and/or converted back to the basic F6 and T7 specs, and as all my aircraft would have smoke generators fitted as standard we all agreed on 'D' for 'Display'. I always knew that we would have to have serious 'CAA' input throughout the whole process of forming the team, but this had been a bit of a surprise, but as it turned out, a rather nice surprise, to date HHA have contracts to refurbish a further five aircraft to the Mk 6D standard for other people (including two for the RAF), after mine are finished of course, and finally, just as we were about to walk out of the door the senior 'grey suit' said 'oh by the way, your request to fly with live ejection seats, it has been approved', just like that.

\----------------------

As the nose of the gleaming Mk6D slid out of its box, and into the bright Mediterranean sunshine its new British Racing Green paint scheme glistened (spookily it was actually Hunter Green, the same as the Lady S, as BRG covers a wide spectrum of colours), and the gold lines down either side gave off a lustrous sheen, but those lines finished just before the air intakes. Why, because my first aircraft had no intakes, or an engine, or wings, or even a tailplane; it was a sawn off static display nose section. It was the entire front end of an F6, sorry Mk6D, down to the last detail. The nose undercarriage was complete, and it would go up and down, sorry – retract, for the purists, but in reality the whole thing was really supported by a framework at the rear end. I had inherited the nose section with one of my aircraft and HHA had quickly realised that it could be very useful indeed. Whereas it was a bit dodgy to 'willy nilly' drill holes through the skin of a real aeroplane (for example when trial fitting the new glass cockpit), it was ok to do so on this one, any slip of the drill and a bit of poly filler soon made it as good as new. HHA also used it to proof fit all my new instrumentation and associated black boxes in the new equipment bay, where the gun packs had once been; apart of course for my aircraft, that still had it installed when it arrived at their factory, complete with cannon shells, oops! They made sure that everything was properly laid out and ventilated in the new 'equipment' bay, and that the new access panels worked as advertised before they even touched a 'real' aeroplane; although the four gun ports, complete with Sabrina's (the four bulging link collectors on the aircrafts sides) would remain, just to make the aircraft look mean (I wonder why they call them Sabrina's?).

When the trials had been successfully concluded I had HHA refurbish it to the Mk6D standard, finishing it as per the other aircraft, connect all the electrical bits up to a rather large computer and voila! I now had a flight simulator, not like the 'proper' ones, but good enough to train up my pilots on the new glass screen cockpit, and also to teach them how to respect an ejection seat. The bomb heads at HHA had rigged up a nasty fright for anyone who forgot the correct procedure, no blood but plenty of brown stuff, although the only person that I really felt sorry for was the sign writer, I had 'assigned' Inma as its pilot, and had insisted that her full name was on the side of the fuselage, with Topsy as her plane captain, hopefully it would be a nice surprise for her when she returned to El Campo. Chalky also wanted his share of it to, to train up his fire crews on ejection seat safety and aircrew rescue in the event of a crash; and I also wanted my share of it to - as a video game, and then two days later I was off with Natasha on a date, not that kind of date, she was young enough to be my daughter, it was to collect the first two modified aircraft, and they were definitely the bee's knees. As we swept in over El Campo, Natasha glued to my wing tip, I just knew that this was the beginning of something very special.

As the new aircraft started arriving the unmodified ones were quickly sent back to England, but HHA had gained in experience and so we had the 'shed', full of aircraft by the 23rd of December, what a 'crimbo prezzy', and to make it even more special Inma broke a specially prepared bottle of 'champers' over the nose wheel of her very own 'quarter of an aeroplane' to celebrate. Inma had the sparkle back in her eyes when she returned to El Campo, but it was murder trying to stop her from working. First off I thought that as she was getting a car then she should first have a driving license - that should slow her down for a while. It took her ten days. Then she had to choose a car, but I had forgotten that I had already done that bit (after a chat with her), and it was sat waiting for her in the garage next to Russ's Roller. I hope she doesn't get them mixed up. Then suddenly she settled down, in between X and Y hangars - in the ground crew crewroom to be more precise; she voluntarily took over the coffee boat, not that I complained, she made an egg sarnie to die for.

After the Christmas break it was down to serious training for both the aircrew and ground crew alike. Our first public display was to be at the Farnborough International Air Show on my birthday, the twentieth of May (I don't mind what presents I get, just as long as they are expensive), if we are going to start somewhere, it might as well be at the top. My converted BAe 146 arrived in February, and it was a bit of everything. It was a line shack to Topsy, it was a briefing room to Natasha, it was a passenger airliner to the ground crew, and it was an office to Teddy; what was it for me? I wondered, and why did Teddy want a flying office? So that he could terrify the aircrew of course. Zebedee (that was what we named her) had airborne radar and CCTV installed so that he could follow the formations around the sky, they were never very far from his beady eyes.

Early in May I had another visit from HRH and his extended family, I now seemed to be the only person that could get away with entertaining royalty as though they were the next door neighbours popping in for a cup of sugar, I certainly had a lot to thank Major Cummings for - I think. We all had a relaxing time cruising around the Greek Islands on board the Lady S (the floating one), and Inma never put a foot, sorry wheel wrong, but on the way back from the Islands we stopped off at a deserted beach, not too far from El Campo, and were treated to the first complete display routine of the Green Machines. Sally, one of the spare pilots was turning out to have the makings of a great commentator, and so she was our Master/Mistress of Ceremonies; and it was a spectacular display, both of them (?).

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Chapter 13

My birthday comes around every year, whether I like it or not, but this year I was actually looking forward to it, it was tomorrow, and as I was idly thinking about it, I was flying over the Bay of Biscay with sixteen Hunters and Zebedee following me, and as we neared the English coast Teddy orchestrated our 'arrival' onto the Display Circuit. I didn't have a lot to do as I was not a professional aerobatics pilot, but I could still hold my own in formation flying so as I approached our destination, on Teddy's mark, I pressed my 'press to transmit' button. _'Farnborough Approach, this is Lady S requesting permission to 'fly by', and then join left hand circuit for landing'_ _._ Either I would get a rollicking for not sticking to strict R/T procedure, or I might just get away with it.

' _Lady S, this is Farnborough approach, you are cleared for 'fly by' and left hand circuit to land, by the way are you on your own?'_

I had got away with it, _'only a couple of chicks Farnborough approach, will be overhead in three zero seconds out'._

Thirty seconds later I took the centre line down Farnborough's main runway, I was perhaps a little low but hopefully no one would notice, perhaps they would all be too occupied with the eight gleaming Hawker Hunters on either wing tip, and a BAe 146 trying to crawl up my jet pipe. At Teddy's command I just pressed my stop watch and then carried serenely on, but everyone else went ballistic. Firstly Zebedee seemed to stop in mid-air and then wheel around and dart for the end of the runway. She had to disgorge the ground crew before we arrived. Topsy had paid a flying visit to Farnborough a few days earlier and using a laser beam and an old fashioned tape measure he 'spotted' our marshalling points in green paint, and then as the hand on my stopwatch reached the required number I flipped Lady S on her side and pulled on a few 'g', we had practiced this quite a few times so I knew that sixteen Hunters were now in 'line astern' behind me, but, according to the professionals perhaps a little too close for comfort. Teddy knew the main runways width to the inch, and as I touched down to the left of the runway Natasha, just behind me touched down in the centre of it, and her number two touched down just behind, and to the right of her; and it was crisply repeated by the remaining fourteen aircraft, and a few thousand aviators started breathing again, and as I lead my team to the dispersal Topsy had everything 'tickerty boo', and it all went like clockwork. 'Red Arrows move over, there are new kids on the block'.

Once on the ground everything was checked and Lady S was led away by the nose to her new resting place, the organisers had persuaded me to let her reside in the static park, where hopefully she would be one of the main attractions. I only agreed to this as long as a couple of my own security people guarded her full time, and what posers they turned out to be. They were photographed in their smart green uniforms (minus their guns of course) against the side of the Lady S, beside Nanny Melva, kissing little Kyle and Macey, and generally beating the Coldstream Guards at their own game, but eventually we got the summons, 'would we (Teddy, Natasha and I), please go to the control tower'. It was obviously time for slapped wrists all around. We were shown into the air show's Control Centre and were introduced to all the big wigs, then finally it was the turn of the Programme Director, he was a funny choice to give us a bol- sorry telling off. No it wasn't a telling off, 'had we anything up our sleeves', as I had a short sleeved shirt on, 'not a lot', then he came clean. Two of the smaller teams had just pulled out, 'financial troubles', but worse, one of the international display teams had just been grounded. There had been a spate of mechanical failures involving their type of aircraft and the F.A.A. and C.A.A. had grounded them all, 'could we give them some extra display time'. We had a routine, which representatives from Farnborough and the C.A.A. had seen and approved, and were expecting us to put on, but we also had something a little extra, just in case, and this was the case.

'Well' said Teddy, looking at Natasha and myself, 'I suppose we could give you an extra ten minutes' (the Red Arrows had given him an extra thirty seconds) so it was nearly kisses all round, and the next morning at aircrew briefing, my pilots caused quite a stir, they were all dressed up in their 'Sunday best' flying suits, 'but can you fly as well as you dress' they jibed. 'Just you wait and see sunshine'.

Spot on the designated time Sally took over from the display commentator, and the Programme Director pressed the button on his stop watch, and the display went perfectly, it was an aerial ballet, enough to make grown men weep, but there were sixteen aircraft in the air and what the crowds really wanted to see were all sixteen of them in a single formation, and it looked as though it wasn't going to happen as Sally seemed to be winding up her spiel, and the Programme Director was starting to feel very faint as we were only on time for the original display, and then, accompanied by rapturous applause the aircraft completed their final bomb burst and disappeared, and then, just as she was about to hand over to the very worried Commentator (he had nothing whatsoever to commentate on, the rest of the aircraft were all on the ground) she said _'Oh! By the way Graham, you were asking me earlier what our pilots do when they are not flying'_ , he didn't remember any such conversation but he was too much of a professional to let that worry him.

' _That's right Sally, what do they do?'_

' _They play cards Graham'._

He could see she was playing for time so he went on, _'and what game do they play Sally?_

' _It's a special game Graham.'_

' _Oh really Sally, and how does it go,'_ he now had his fingers firmly crossed behind his back and hoped this was leading somewhere.

' _First off they take a pack of cards, shuffle them, and discard about half of the pack, and then the rest are split evenly between them. One player then lays a card, and the other one has to try and follow suit. Three consecutive cards and you win the trick; four of a kind, or four in a row and you win the game'._

This was getting boring Graham thought, and then Sally continued _'there was one particularly interesting game this morning between Mr Michaels and Teddy, our team Manager'_

' _Oh really'_ said a puzzled Graham.

' _Yes'_ said a defiant Sally, _'First Teddy laid the Ace of Diamonds'_

And four Hunters, in an immaculate diamond formation rose up in front of the startled spectators. They reached an imaginary point high in the sky and then seemingly dissolved.

' _Then Mr Michaels laid the Two of Diamonds.'_

And first one 'diamond four', and then just below it another 'diamond four' rose into the air, just like the two of diamonds on a playing card, and as the first four reached that imaginary point in the sky they all dissolved, each going their own separate ways.

' _We had all seen the Four of Diamonds get taken earlier',_ Sally stalled, **'** _but was the three of Diamonds in the discarded half of the pack, or was it in Teddy's hand we all wondered?_ _Then Teddy leaned over the table and triumphantly flung down the Three of Diamonds'_ _,_ she all but screamed.

And right on cue first one diamond four, then another, and finally a third seemed to rise from the ground in front of the crowds; they now had the three of diamonds, before they again dissolved, and by now the crowd could sense that something special was about to happen, was it going to be the four of diamonds, but no Sally had already said it had gone.

' _Teddy leaned over to take the trick,_ Sally continued **,** _but Mr Michaels placed his hand over the cards, 'not quite' he said, and ladies and gentlemen at this stage of the game you must realise who actually signs our pay cheques at the end of each month, and with a flourish he laid down the winning card - and what was it you may ask? Ladies and gentlemen it was_ _Mr Andrew Michaels very own Sixteen of Diamonds',_ and with that all sixteen of my aircraft rose from the ground in a perfect Diamond Sixteen formation. The crowds went wild, the Programme Director fainted, Graham was speechless, and Lt Eagles RN, who had been trying to get into his Gazelle for the past five minutes, one foot in his aircraft and the other on the step gave up and just stared as the first of the sixteen aircraft reached that imaginary point in the sky, but the formation didn't dissolve, it curled over in a loop, and then into a barrel roll, all the time being followed by the other fifteen aircraft in perfect formation, and for a further five minutes the sixteen Hunters gracefully wheeled around the skies above Farnborough, as if bound together by cables, reminiscent of the Black Arrows in the 1950's and then after the obligatory bomb burst finale, one at a time each pilot did a low/slow flypast in front of the mesmerised spectators, giving them a wave from the cockpit as Sally introduced them. In return each received a rapturous applause, not only from the crowd but from their peers as well. Then finally it was Natasha's turn, and as she did a perfect sixteen point hesitation roll, at about zero feet (give or take), she received a standing ovation from the Red Arrows (and every other pilot on the airfield). Finally, an exhausted Sally handed the microphone back to Graham, who now had some 'filling in' of his own to do as Lt Eagles was only now kicking his machine into life. _'Well Ladies and Gentlemen'_ he said ' _how do you follow that'_ (unfortunately it was the poor Lieutenant _), 'and before you go Sally, thank you for that enthralling commentary, and from everyone here at Farnborough, a big thank you to Mr Andrew Michaels and his 'Green Diamonds'_. It was now going to cost me a small fortune to get all the publicity bumf changed.

The next morning at the aircrew briefing eighteen chairs were vacant in the front row, and we received a standing ovation from the remainder of the room as we made our way to them. I also received about fifty C.V.'s as I passed through the crowded room, and yet again the Programme Director was in a tiz woz. As two Pitt Specials were taxiing in after their display yesterday, one had had a brake failure and neatly chopped the tail off of his team leader, no one was hurt 'but', 'can you PLEASE give me a few extra minutes'.

'How about twenty five' I said, and that shut everybody up. Then I continued, 'how about if Natasha does a solo routine, Topsy, my Crew Chief, and Natasha have worked something out, but about half of it will be on the ground; perhaps she can be the final act of the show?' Although the Air Show was on for a week, the public were only allowed in for the final two days, the first five being reserved for big business. As I had nothing to sell we were only doing the last two days.

Sally had sorted things out with Natasha and the two earlier programmes were now smoothly rolled into one, but everyone in the know really only wanted to see the final display.

_Good evening Ladies and Gentlemen it's me again, and please may I introduce Miss Natasha_ _Shladakoff, team leader of the 'Green Diamonds'._

Loads of applause - then nothing.

' _Pliz, werr iz ze starter buzzon'_ came a plaintive plea over the loud speakers.

Natasha, in Arabella was hiding behind a hangar close to the end of the runway, along with Topsy and my 'bomb heads'. It took her about ten minutes, and many flash bangs and fireworks to finally get Arabella started and to bounce her onto the end of the runway, only she was across it, not along it.

' _Pliz, ziz runway iz vezy short - but I go,'_ and with that she slammed the throttle open.

' _No, No'_ Sally screamed _'you are pointing the wrong way'_ **.**

After a few more bumps and grinds Arabella was finally straddled the centre line, but pointing in the wrong direction. _'Okidoke, thaz iz bezzer, I go now'._

Yet again Sally did her screaming bit, and then told Natasha to look in her rear view mirror.

' _Pliz, Iz av no rear view mirror'_ Natasha wailed.

' _But all aircraft have rear view mirrors'_ Sally moaned.

' _No Iz av never ad one'_ she explained, and then Sally had an idea.

' _Natasha has your aircraft got a make-up mirror?'_

' _Ov course, all Russian pizots muzz luk bufull'_ **,** and so she instructed Natasha to twist it.

' _OOOOH, Iz can zee my behind'_ **,** and over half the spectators had a vision.

Finally, when she was lined up on the centre of the runway, and pointing in the right direction, Natasha slowly pushed the throttle forward to its stop, and just as the mighty Avon reached its maximum output she released the brakes, and roared off down the runway, and into the history books. First the undercarriage came up, and then the flaps, and then Arabella sank down until the bottom of her fuselage was a mere few inches above the tarmac, and every pilot knows that when you pull the nose of an aircraft up, its tail goes down - and Natasha had no room under her tail. Just as she seemed to be running out of runway Natasha blipped the flaps and Arabella leapt vertically into the air, and once there was room below her tail Natasha re-wrote the books on the Theory of Flight. She covered all the standard manoeuvres, plus a few more in her breath-taking routine, and then she came in for her finale, and cart wheeled in front of the crowd, now that was impossible. As she taxied in I could hear all the old Theory of Flight books hitting the bottoms of the skips, but then, just as she was coming to a graceful halt, spot on her spot, things quickly turned pear shaped. The crowd control barriers paid only lip service to crowd control and an ecstatic crowd surged forward, heading towards her aircraft. Fortunately the ground crews managed to stop any spectators from being sucked into Natasha's intakes as she frantically shut the mighty Avon down, but not so a very large hat, and then the crowds were swarming all around my beautiful aircraft. I watched the mayhem unfolding before me from the top of the V.I.P. viewing stand, and I think I broke at least three world records myself as I hurdled down the bank of chairs, some of which still had people in them, and ran towards the flight line, which unfortunately for me was a fair distance away. As I finally wheezed my way onto the line I was met by a grim faced Topsy. Arabella needed a new 'donkey', and a few of the smaller aircraft blanks had been 'purloined' by energetic souvenir hunters, but it looked as though we had gotten away quiet lightly with our first riot, but it was obvious that aircraft security was going to have to have a higher priority in the future. As I approached Arabella her tail assembly had already been slid off and two rather large hunter green (with gold trim of course) articulated Lorries were parked one either side of her, they were our 'roadies'. John had realised that Zebedee could not carry anything like the amount of spares that might just be needed whilst we were operating away from home, so he'd had two forty foot trailers (13.6 meters actually) converted into mobile store rooms and workshop, complete with their own hydraulic crane and fork lift truck. They were easily capable of providing all the necessary support equipment that was required to enable the engine change to go speedily ahead, as well as providing the replacement engine, sorry donkey, itself. They even had an awning that could span the working area in case of inclement weather - nice one John, and most of my pilots were safely tucked up in bed by the time Arabella was better, but one, by the name of Marcos, was wide awake, not through excitement but because he only needed four hours sleep a night, or less. Marcos was Portuguese and he had been a member of their national aerobatic team before he joined me. Doc Martin had initially been worried about this strange phenomenon but after innumerable tests she agreed that that was all he needed, so he was standing by to take Arabella up for a test flight. It was pitch black by the time Topsy had ground run the new engine and finished all the paperwork, but that was not a problem, as all my Hunters were rated for night flying, although none had actually done it before. Fortunately Marcos owned his own aircraft and regularly flew home to Portugal to see his girlfriend, usually arriving after dark, so he was 'night flying rated', and Farnborough Air Traffic Control were 'flexible' about allowing the test flight; but only as long as he did the noisy bits well away from the airfield. We didn't realise that he was back until he taxied onto the hard standing, apparently a Hunter glides beautifully when the engine is throttled right back. All the aircraft had had their drop tanks re-fitted, and so after Arabella was refuelled and A.F.'d (after flight inspection) all my aircraft were now ready for the long flight home, so it was off to beddy byes in a nice comfortable bed for me, and I didn't have to go very far to get to it, after all Zebedee was MY BAe 146 and I had to get some use out of her now didn't I.

I had been in bed for about ten minutes when my mobile phone rang, it was Marcos, 'there is a situation in the aircrew bar'.

Apparently not all the rest of my pilots were tucked up in bed. Melvyn was just about the only one of my pilots that I didn't really get along with. He was an excellent pilot (and didn't he know it) but at this moment he was in the bar, and unlike the rest of the pilots that were flying tomorrow he decided to break the 'bottle to throttle' rule (no alcohol within the twenty-four hour period prior to take-off). He had only had two small ones, but unfortunately as he hadn't had a serious drink since the New Year they went straight to his head, so he had a couple more, and I arrived just as he was downing his last (whilst he was employed by me anyway) (a double), down in one, and he immediately decided that attack was the best form of defence and started getting belligerent. It turned out that he was clearly a 'closet' sexist (amongst other things) – he did not approve of women 'bosses' in particular, women 'drivers' in general, and was obviously a bad loser when he didn't get any of the prime jobs, 'and he thought all that effing money was wasted on me'.

'My, my, aren't we the jealous one' I thought, as I sacked him on the spot - and then departed to wake up Teddy and Natasha to break the good news.

The briefing in Zebedee the following morning was scheduled for nine o'clock, for a ten o'clock take off, but she was deserted, everyone was out on the line ripping the drop tanks off the aircraft, after they had first been drained of fuel. When I had left the bar the previous night Melvyn had then really gone on a bender, and just before the MOD police escorted him off the Airfield he had announced to all and sundry that 'that bunch of amateurs won't have a hope in hells chance of giving any more displays for many a month, not without me', 'they are not that good'.

Normally I wouldn't have given it a second thought, but when I went up to the Control Tower at eight o'clock to say my goodbyes I was greeted with ' _It's a pity you've got to cancel your other displays_ ', now that seriously pissed me off. It was time to see if David's comment was true, 'could I actually walk on water?', and the answer apparently was yes, as at ten o'clock gaggles of two or three aircraft at a time took off in loose 'wobbly' formation, and disappeared off into the distance. It looked to those not in the know that the new kids on the block were skulking away, a very feeble departure, and if anyone had bothered to count they would have seen seventeen Hunters finally disappeared off to 'who knows where', but my feet were still firmly on the ground, Natasha had asked me 'pretty please, can I borrow the Lady S'.

Of course I said 'yes', 'but if you scratch her, it comes out of your pay packet', and a few minutes later I strolled casually outside Zebedee, with a pair of ear defenders firmly clamped over my ears, just in time to see, hear and feel seventeen Hawker Hunters roar over the spectator's heads. They were way below the minimum height, and in a tight diamond sixteen 'and a bit' formation, my Lady S was the 'bit', with Natasha trying to fly up the jet pipe of the Sally, who had taken Melvyn's place as 'tail end Charlie'. Peter Frost, my other spare pilot was also among them somewhere, but with the minimum of shuffling about there were now seventeen gleaming Hunters pirouetting about the sky. They did the full diamond sixteen routine, and just as they were doing the bomb burst Natasha roared in under them and did three consecutive cartwheels along the runway, a very polite way of saying 'up yours Melvyn'.

When I paid my final 'final' visit to the Control Tower it was a different atmosphere all together, it was all very upbeat, 'but was I going to try and beat the world record of twenty-two Hunters doing a loop at Farnborough way back in '58, in two years' time?' (Farnborough alternates annually with Paris).

'Of course I wasn't, it had taken me all of my time to get sixteen Hunters into formation', but I had ALL my fingers and toes crossed as I said it.

~~~~

Chapter 14

The flight home was a bit of an anti-climax, I think we had all been running on adrenalin for so long that we just sat quietly at 35,000 feet for two and a half hours, trundling along at a steady 320 knots, and all lost in our own thoughts. Sally was flying Zebedee with Teddy as I had decided that Peter would be covering the vacant spot created by that miscreant Melvyn, and would continue to do so until the end of the season. Sally was unfortunately the victim of her own success; I couldn't afford to lose her sweet dulcet tones over the loud speakers, and as I had not been waggling my throttle around trying to keep 'loose' formation on everyone else, I had a few drops of fuel left in my tanks when we arrived at El Campo, so I went off to play whilst the rest of them put on a bit of a show for those that had been left behind. I had spotted some fair weather Cumulus clouds (puffy cotton wool balls floating in the sky), my absolute most favouritest clouds of all time, so I spent the next ten minutes or so flying in between, and around them, trying not to 'hit the walls'. I had read once that it was good for your heart to have a fright at least once a day, apparently every fright extended your life slightly, anything from nearly being hit by a bus, to saying no to the wife, so after my play time was over (I was now looking forward to living to the ripe old age of two hundred and twenty-five, old enough for anyone) I exited the playground, throttled back and prepared to land. There was no one else in the air by the time I was ready so I did a lazy old circuit, and was nice and relaxed as I lined myself up with the runway, and I just knew that there wasn't anywhere else in the world that I wanted to be at this moment in time. I quickly glanced down into the office for a final check on the P's and T's (pressures and temperatures) and then looked up again. In those couple of seconds a great big red blob had formed between me and the runway, and I was quickly going to be ploughing into it. If I hit this cotton wool ball I definitely wasn't going to be flying out of the other side, as it was a propeller driven Beagle 206 light twin, circa 1960's, and it had just screwed in, in front of me, to make a quick landing. Instinctively I pulled the stick back into my right kidney, kicked the rudder hard over and slammed the throttle forward, and when I finally sorted everything out, and was safely orbited El Campo at a safe height, I watched the 206 race along the runway at just under flying speed. At the end it swerved off onto the taxi-track, hardly reducing its speed at all, and then with clouds of smoke billowing from its brake units it came to rest against my lovely flower bed by the main gate. With its engines still running the pilot jumped out of the aircraft and sprinted towards the Security Office. I waited with baited breath for my 'honed to perfection' protectors to cut the running figure down in mid stride - but all they did was point to the Office - and the pilot disappeared inside.

After much mutterings of apologies from Chalky I quickly landed and taxied to 'Y' hangar, where I was met by a very nervous Carlos, and as I clambered down the side of Lady S I was definitely not a happy little bunny. I threw my helmet and oxygen mask onto the back seat of his Range Rover and squeezed into the passenger seat, which was no mean feat in itself as I still had my bulky immersion suit on, which we all wore when flying over water. As we made our way to the gate Carlos was full of apologies, and when I asked him why his people had not shot the pilot stone dead when he had landed in my flower bed he explained that 'her Royal Highness' had been a regular visitor to El Campo for many years. 'Her Majesty' regularly popped in when passing by in her bright red aeroplane, that was why she had not been shot to pieces by the team on the gate today, they were all 'brummies' so knew her well. 'After all' he wailed, 'all she wanted to do was use the loo'.

On pressing Carlos harder I quickly realised that forms of address for titled personage was not his strong point, so as we continued on our way I used the cars radio to contact Chalky. He had quickly found out who owned the aircraft, it was the Marchioness of Heston, which didn't faze me in the slightest; all it meant was that there would be one less in the line of succession to the throne after I got hold of her.

First things first, I clambered into the 206's palatial cockpit, and despite what had just gone on, I immediately thought that it wasn't half bad at all for a golden oldie. It was maybe a tad younger than my Hunters, but it definitely couldn't go through the sound barrier, well not without leaving its wings behind anyhow. After scanning the controls I finally sorted out how to stop the two Rolls Royce Continental turbocharged engines (this made it a Beagle 206S, the posh one) and shut them down. Second things second, I then checked my flower bed, but fortunately ' _no plants had been harmed in the arrival of this aircraft'_ , it just had its nose wheel resting lightly against a curb stone, so I calmed down perhaps just a smidging, and stormed off into the Security Office, Patrolpersons Shack, Guard Room or whatever I felt like calling it at the time, and stood fuming outside the loo door. About five minutes later a woman dressed in a flying suit the same colour as the aircraft came out, took one look at me and disappeared back inside. I started to get worried; perhaps it was my personal hygiene. On her second appearance she managed to touch my hand briefly (which I promptly disinfected) and say 'call me Sasha' - before disappearing again; well at least I wasn't going to have to change the names of my ship and aeroplane. These brief appearences were repeated three more times before Doctora Botella arrived on the scene and disappeared inside, what a brave lady, and about twenty minutes later the Ambulance arrived and whisked the two women off to the local hospital; I was going to have to get a season ticket for its car park.

After Topsy had liberated the undercarriage safety locks from the pilots door pocket, and finally found out where to put them (by this time I was very tempted to tell him exactly where he 'could' put them) we pushed (that is the royal 'we') the miscreant aircraft around so that it pointing roughly in the direction from whence it came, and placed a couple of chocks around the nose wheel (much easier than digging up curb stones). I then clambered in and after quickly fathoming out how to re-start the engines, taxied the whole thing around to 'A' hangar; with Topsy sat in the back giving the royal wave to all and sundry. It really was a very nicely put together little aeroplane, although there was definitely a very funny smell in the cockpit - but being a gentleman I put it down to me having recently taken off my immersion suit.

That evening, as I sat in Inma's old room, Sasha explained, of course after profuse apologies for her unannounced arrival (and in between continuing trips to the loo) that her sister and her husband (Margaret and Gerald) lived in Melilla, which is one of two autonomous Spanish cities situated on the northern coast of North Africa, and separated from Morocco by strips of neutral land. Margaret and Gerald had fallen in love with Spanish Morocco on their honeymoon World tour, and got no further. Both were aristocracy, but had never paid it more than lip service as they quickly settled down to live the lives of eccentric artists, in other words they were most likely lousy painters who fortunately didn't have to sell any of their paintings to eat. Over the years they and their children had become part of the 'Melilla scene' and Sasha, who was the senior sister, and favourite aunt, regularly visited them. She explained that she had always had a passion for flying (she can't be all bad then) hence the 206S, which she'd had from new. Two or three times a year she would go sister visiting, stopping off at a small airfield just outside Bilbao to refuel; and El Campo for a comfort stop before crossing the Mediterranean. She had found El Campo by accident when her engines had started spluttering. Fortunately she was just making landfall after flying across the Med from Melilla and there in front of her was El Campo. It was then a disused airfield and the runways were blocked, but she skilfully put down on a taxi track. There turned out to be water in the fuel, obviously the bowser driver at Melilla airport had not been doing his job properly, but it was easily rectifiable and Carlos was such a nice man, 'he always let me use the loo after that'.

'Why haven't I seen you here before then?' I asked.

'Because _Fresa_ was in serious need of a major overhaul, but it took me three years to get it completed after two different companies went bust on me, one of them even 'sold' _Fresa_ , and so I had to go through the courts to get her back.'

Why is she called ' _Fresa_ ', I asked, knowing that I really should know the answer.

'Because _Fresa_ is Spanish for strawberries, and strawberries are my favourite fruit.

'Beryl, get digging' I thought, but just before I could ask the question that I had wanted to ask her, from the moment I first saw her, a young slip of a girl came in with a large entourage behind her, she was the Consultant Medicina Digestiva (tummy specialist). Sasha asked me to stay for moral support, and Doctora Maria Asuncion Saura Sanchez, Doctora Saura Sanchez for short, quickly came to the point.

'The good news is that it isn't cancer'.

That changed the colour of Sasha's face, and she grabbed my hand, obviously the 'C' word had never crossed her mind, but it 'was' another 'C' word. 'It looks as though it is Colitis', but she had scheduled Sasha in for an endoscopy tomorrow morning, just to confirm it.

Surprisingly this is where I came in 'will there be an anaesthetist present' I asked her, I was an expert on endoscopies, with and without an anaesthetist.

'With' Doctora answered.

'What is an endoscopy' Sasha asked, 'and why do I need an anaesthetist?'

'Don't ask' I replied.

The Consultant then went on to explain what Colitis was (surprisingly enough, something to do with the Colon), what her prognosis was (two to three weeks in hospital then home treatment), and a special diet.

'Daiquiri por favor' Sasha replied, I liked her style.

Doctora gave her a blank look - and her entourage collapsed about the room in hysterics, Medicina Digestiva was not normally such a fun subject, and once Doctora and Co vacated the premises we sat there looking at my hand, it was going a very funny colour.
'I suppose I had better let it go' she said.

'Only if you feel that it is absolutely necessary' I replied, praying that she would not notice that rigor mortis was setting in, but fortunately I was sat down!! (it had been a long time since Sandra had returned to the UK).

She slackened her grip slightly, allowing a few drops of blood to squeeze by and I then plucked up the courage to ask her **'the'** question, 'Are you married?'

' **No she is not'** came a stern reply from behind me, 'but if you are who I think you are, then keep trying'. Enter the younger sister stage left.

' **Margaret'** an exasperated Sasha shouted, but I think I saw a twinkle in her eye, and finally, after introductions were over, Sasha asked where her brother-in-law was.

'Trying to find a decent Hotel, I left him cruising the streets in a taxi.'

'Has he got a mobile on him' I asked.

'Yes' came the puzzled reply.

'Then ring him and tell him to come directly here, you can stay at El Campo', and handed her my phone.

'You certainly have some clout around here don't you' was the first thing that Gerald said to me as he entered the room, 'first they wanted to throw the cases out into the street, swiftly followed by yours truly, then when I mentioned your name they couldn't do enough for me, there is now an armed guard on my underpants'.

I was beginning to like the whole family.

After the usual pleasantries were concluded Sasha then explained to them what had happened to her since she left Bilbao earlier today (she was on her way 'down' to Melilla). As she skirted Madrid she started feeling _uncomfortable_ , and by the time El Campo was in sight she was almost _touching cloth,_ as her nephew was to later quaintly put it. She then went on to explain her spectacular 'arrival', and what had transpired after that, finally ending up with the prognosis, but with quite a few graphic/gory interruptions by yours truly, and then with perfect timing the cavalry arrived in the very shapely shapes of four nurses, in crisp white uniforms, the back-up from my hospital/hotel had arrived, and yet more work for Marcus. Finally, just before we left her in the capable hands of Freyja, my favourite Swedish nurse (she always warmed her hands first (?)) Gerald asked her why she wasn't in a private hospital; surely her medical insurance would cover it.

Sasha looked at me and blushed – and Margaret kicked him. It was certainly turning out to been one of those days.

~~~~

Chapter 15

What's wrong with me? I am probably the world's most eligible bachelor, but all that I seemed to be able to do is to hang on to the new women in my life for about six months at a time. My first foray into the love stakes following the loss of Sheila, my wife, almost five years ago had been Sandra, the media icon. That had been a helter-skelter ride of emotions, but in the end her 'calling' recalled her, and now it was the turn of the aristocracy. Unfortunately the circles that Sasha moved in were very unforgiving, irrespective of what I was like as a person, or what was secreted away in the bank account, it was my family tree that was far more important to them. For the first three weeks of our fling Sasha spent it in bed, not that bed, a hospital bed, but once she was on the road to recovery that sorted itself out, and we started to hit the high life (although not straying too far from a loo), first my version of it and then gradually hers, but I was definitely not invited inside. I suppose historians in years to come might indicate that I didn't try hard enough to integrate (or should that be ingratiate) myself into her circles, but I am a great believer that a person is what they are, not who their great uncle, third removed was, and the final straw came when Sasha invited her coven over for a bridge weekend at my 'pad', and I was 'told' by the head crone to 'pour the tea'.

When I sarcastically hinted that I might actually employ other people to carry out that function, Sasha absent mindedly reverted to type and snapped at me to 'stop making a fuss Andrew, and just do it'.

Up until that moment I had only been having a 'bad hair day', but that seemed to be just a teensy weensy bit O.T.T., and I think I handled the situation quite well considering. I gave her and her cronies one hour to get off my property, and then I would tell the security staff that they were 'weapons free'. I then stormed down to the marina, untied the Aquarama, clambered on board, turned the ignition keys, and as soon as the engines fired rammed the throttles to their stops. It was a good job that there was no speed limit in my marina as it would have been exceeded by the time the Aquarama's stern had cleared the boathouse. Carol eventually sent a helicopter to herd me back (with my head start there was nothing in the marina that could catch up with me) as 'Bob the Bosun' didn't think that I had enough fuel on board to reach Morocco 'at full chat'. By the time that I finally, and rather sheepishly, edged the Aquarama (surprisingly the Chrysler motors seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the abuse) back into its home, two hours after its frantic departure, and David had driven me up to Mi Casa, there was absolutely no sign of Sasha or her Wiccans. I never did enquire about what had happened after my departure – 'plausible deniability' and all that!

That was three weeks ago, and now, as I mulled it over in my mind for the 'enth time, a sexy young voice whispered into my 'shell like ear hole' _'Lady S, you are cleared to join ........'_ I was back in the land of the living and dropping in for a flying visit to my favourite _Ejército del Aire_ (Spanish Air Force) base in northern Spain (no air traffic controller had yet had the spherical's to correct my RT procedure). For some obscure reason I was their guest of honour at some ceremony or other, followed by a spot of lunch, and then later on, yet another free dinner. Once my inner self had been fully sated then it was to be a few hours' sleep in the VIP quarters and then onwards and upwards to the UK for an early Christmas with Alice and her new husband Algernon, and all went well until I pressed the 'undercarriage down' button. Instead of 'three reds', followed reassuringly by a few clunks and then 'three greens', my finger disappeared into the bowels of the side panel, and as I looked on in mild interest at this strange occurrence, a rather sticky puddle started to form around my heals. I didn't need to remove my oxygen mask to smell its distinctive odour; it was hydraulic fluid (gocha), which at that moment should have been making its way to my undercarriage jacks, not turning the cockpit floor into a paddling pool. The hours spent playing in my 'quarter of a Hunter', practicing emergency procedures paid off. Without really thinking I glanced down at the undercarriage indicator lights, one red light – with no indication of the situation improving any time soon, and pulled the emergency down lever. This normally blasts compressed air into the undercarriage jacks forcing the legs down, and then locking them. I say normally because in this instance all it did was turn my new paddling pool into a Jacuzzi. _'I discontinued my intention to land at the present time'_ (aborted my landing) and mentally went through my options, (a) continue my decent by courteous of Martin Baker (eject), or (b) ask for help. I opted for the latter and declared an emergency to the sexy voice, which quickly lost its sexiness and became very business-like.

As I slowly orbited the airfield, and doing a couple of slow speed fly-by's just for fun, a well-oiled machine leapt into action. Within a few minutes a patch of the secondary runway started to turn white, and someone upstairs looked down very kindly on me. The observers in the control tower 'thought' that despite the one red light my undercarriage was still locked in the up position and my flaps were still in the downwind configuration (30 degrees) (neither fully up nor fully down), and the belly air brake was retracted. The Lady S had four empty drop tanks fitted on her wings, they had been fitted, but not filled, prior to my short(ish) trip to the airbase, and then mańana they would have been filled for my onward journey to Southampton. Somehow I don't think that this was now going to be happening – not in Lady S anyway (but perhaps in a pine box if I got it all wrong).

Finally everything on the ground was in place, and after a quick chat with Teddy back at El Campo, and one dummy approach, I committed myself to reconnecting with terra firma. As all the hydraulic fluid had by now vacated its system I was flying in manual (eat your heart out 'fly by wire' jet jockeys) so it took me a little while to reduce the airspeed. Lady S was in no hurry to slow down as the undercarriage was not dangling in the slipstream and the flaps were not fully down, but finally I got it 'sorted', and as I crossed the runway threshold, with the Avon quietly ticking over behind me (in 'flight idle') I 'committed' and closed the HP fuel cock and shut it down, perhaps it would save any foam from being sucked into the intakes, and then, when I judged that it was 'about that time', I eased the stick back slightly, and as her air airspeed decayed the Lady S settled lower, and lower, and lower, then suddenly I lost all sensation of movement and was surrounded by white fluffy stuff. Was I about to be greeted by St Peter, nope, it was by Fred. Due to the drop tanks skiing on the foam my emergency landing had just become the most totally underwhelming event of the year; and I just slid gracefully to a halt in a sea of foam.

Fred allegedly gained her nickname for her ability to sketch the cartoon character Fred Flintstone, although I personally had never seen any evidence of this. Teddy reckoned that if all else failed she could always give an ailing Avon the kiss of life, and David was convinced that she could effortlessly kick start a Challenger Tank; she was a big girl, and she was one of my Plane Captains. She and her team had flown in earlier in the King Air 350 to tend Lady S's needs whilst she was on the ground.

As I sat there watching her surging towards me, a visible bow wave forming in front of her, I metaphorically sprang into action. I opened the cockpit hood, switched everything off; and then sat perfectly still. I really didn't want an uplifting experience - by kind courtesy of Martin Baker. Fred hoisted herself effortlessly up the side of Lady S and leaned over me, and I then experience a total eclipse, nothing unusual there though, as I said she was a BIG girl. She inserted the safety pins in the rear sear of my seat and various other locations, rendering anything that could go bang safe, and then un-attached (or was it dis-attached) (nope, 'released') me from Lady S. After she had lowered herself into the waist high foam I removed my mask and helmet and dutifully handed them to her, and then stood on her surcoat (which she had fortuitously placed on the ejection seat seat-pan, my boots were soaked in hydraulic fluid) and slipped one foot over the sill and into the step on the outside of the fuselage. I had every intention of getting my 'now not so shiny' flying boots even dirtier, but then found myself being plucked like a feather off the side of Lady S, and cradled safely in Fred's arms. As I was transported gently to dry land, guess how many cameras came out of the woodwork, and where did all their images go?, on to the front pages of every tabloid newspaper in the free world of course; perhaps not an ideal way to endear me to the free press. Fred commandeered a passing fire tender and gave Lady S a quick wash and brush up, and after all the foam had been removed from her fuselage she found that she was virtually un-phased by the whole experience, just a couple of dented drop tanks. Once I was satisfied that there was nothing terminally wrong with the only love of my life I was transported by the Base Commander to the VIP quarters, where Sam was waiting with my change of clothes, and then it was back to 'business as usual', what was a wheels-up landing between friends; and think on the bright side, it did save wear on the brake pads.

After the presentations, march-past and a lunch staring at three buttons on the front of the blouse of my sexy voiced air traffic controller (and idly wondering what the breaking strain of cotton thread was), I went to the hangar where Topsy had had Lady S moved to. He and half my team had arrived tout-suite in Zebedee, anything for an away-day and a free lunch, and I expected her to be ready for an air test, wrong. It was wishful thinking to say the least, and I was not impressed by what greeted my eyes. Lady S was swinging gently under a crane, her drop tanks and wings lying cushioned on the hangar floor a few meters away, and Fred's feet protruding out of the cockpit. The ejection seat had been removed and she was apparently looking for a Mod plate; 'was it anything like a china plate?' I asked. After the ejection seat had been removed she had used copious reams of blue EBR (elephants bum roll) (oversized kitchen roll) to soak up the miscreant hydraulic fluid and then headed south, then west, then north, and finally east clutching a torch and bendy inspection mirror; being a southpaw female definitely had its advantages. Had she been your common or garden right handed male mechanic she would have been castrated and have two hernias before she had completed half the journey. Finally she reached her objective, shone the torch at an obscure angle and looked obliquely at the mirror. 'No Mod Plate' she squeaked – the port rudder peddle was trying to give her a tracheotomy.

'Sh*t' grunted Topsy and stormed off.

'There really must be an easier way of earning a crust' thought Fred.

After investing quite a few hours that evening on honing my chat-up skills on the blouse, her husband came off duty and took her to the safety or their home, so I reluctantly went to check on the progress, or lack of it with Lady S. Did I want the bad news – or the even worse news? Early in the life of the Hunter a serious fault had developed, several pilots had had a digit disappear through the same orifice that mine had, and very quickly a modification was brought out to rectify the problem – Mod. 01, and this was identified on an otherwise identical _Undercarriage Selector Unit_ of its predecessor by a small Modification History Plate (Mod plate) attached to its outer case, and stamped with zero one. Unfortunately instead of being destroyed, or returned for modification a few unmodified selector units found their way to the back of various storage shelves, or into the hands of surplus equipment suppliers, although over the years, with the aircraft still in front and second line service, this was not a problem. If anything went wrong with a unit then trained supervisors ensured that a modified one was fitted in its place, but unfortunately when Herr Englbund created one airframe from his two hulks he must have had his untrained workforce replace the presumably unserviceable selector unit with one from his growing store, and unfortunately in the move to his hangar an unmodified unit must have moved from the back to the front of the shelf. Their untrained eyes hadn't noticed the lack of a modification plate, and Herr Englbund hadn't entered the replacement of the unit in the aircrafts log book. There was a lot of other things going on and his usually meticulous mind had missed it, which didn't really matter did it, after all it wasn't as though it would ever fly again, oops.

On hearing what Topsy had to say, John earned his pay and grounded all my Hunters, and his crews worked throughout the night and found a further two unmodified units, one in the spare Mk6D and the other in Peter's aircraft, and then it can be safely said that ' _the excrement then impacted on the revolving ventilating machine'_ when he rang a panic stricken CEO of HHA at five o'clock the following morning and asked 'have your teams missed any other items'. By mid-day every Hunter in a flyable state world-wide would be grounded by the CAA.

The following morning, after a bleary eyed Teddy explained all this to me, I sympathetically said 'and your point is – it's not my problem – how am I going to get to Southampton now?', after all I didn't want to miss my first Christmas dinner of the season.

Gently banging his head on the hangar wall, he pointed at a Hunter green Grumman G450 parked at the hanger entrance, I thought I recognised it.

~~~~

Chapter 16

As I eased the G450 up to its cruising altitude Teddy was sound asleep in my swivel rocker. He had hitched a lift, but left the driving to me as he required his beauty sleep before he took on HHA. Bad news Teddy boy I thought, it would take at least three circumnavigations of the planet to make any significant improvement in your looks, anyway the co-pilots seat was already occupied by Sam.

\----------------------

Sam wasn't even certified to fly a kite, never mind a corporate jet, (but fortunately I now was - the G450 - not a kite), but was superbly qualified to operate a steam iron. Mrs Blake (my Housekeeper) detailed Nigel (my major-domo) (AKA Butler) (her husband) to find me a suitable Valet. Not your common or garden variety, but the very best; I think it would have been easier to have found out the origin of the universe, but in the end it wasn't the horrendously long job description, or the taking up of the references, or the police checks that whittled the short list down, it was the dunker. Three highly qualified valets actually turned up at Royal Naval Air Station Yeovilton, in Somerset at the designated time, but one look at what the Royal Navy's Underwater Escape Training Unit was going to do to them and two disappeared – never to be seen again. One of the clauses in the job description was that they must be prepared to accompany me when I was away from El Campo, not an unreasonable request, until it was explained to them that occasionally they would be occupying the second seat in a Hunter Mk7D - so they would have to complete all the relevant safety courses, including underwater escape training and (just to sort out the men from the boys) a parachute jump or two. As I now had an abundance of drop tanks John and Topsy had modified a few. All the internal gubbins were removed, quick release hatches were installed and some were fitted out internally to carry spares and equipment, and others became wardrobes. Range permitting I could have a couple of these fitted, have all mine and my flying Valet's bits and bobs stuffed inside them and we would be self-sufficient for a weekend or so away.

With a name like Sam you would expect to meet a swarthy barrel chested northerner, but Sam (call her Samantha on pain of death – or worse) was of average size, average build, had average mousy hair, and was almost invisible. Even when she was sat opposite me at her first interview I had to look twice to see her, but this was just one of her many talents. She seemed totally innocuous and unimposing but somehow everything around her got done to perfection, she had contingency plans for every conceivable eventuality, and could second guess a loose button at a thousand paces. When her application form had first arrived on my desk it gave me a little chuckle, I wanted a valet not a ladies maid, but unfortunately I couldn't just throw it out on 'gender' alone – equal opportunities and all that, so I expected 'natural wastage' to take its toll as we went through the selection process, and then there was one. She loved the dunker, it has two huge specially designed mock-up's of aircraft interiors, the smaller lynx, and the larger SeaKing/Merlin helicopters passenger cabin, which were slung into a large pool, realistically simulating an aircraft ditching in water and then rolling over. Its primary purpose was to train up military aviators and their 'frequent flyers', but it also 'did' a few civvies as well. She did both of the modules half a dozen times, with the lights on and off, and then three days later she was Geronimo'ing out of the side of an aircraft at five thousand feet. She shrugged off the survival at sea course, happily bobbing around in a life raft in the pouring rain, but her most absolute favouritest one of all was jumping off the back of a speeding launch, clambering into a one man (or woman) dinghy and then being winched up into a helicopter, three times, shamelessly used my name to get her own way; this was no mild mannered mouse. She finally started valeting for me just after Sasha burst onto the scene (or was it onto the toilet), and initially I had misgivings about her name, I seemed to have an in-built thing about the Initial S, but when I showed her into Maria's office that first time it was love at first sight – Marcus was cadging a coffee from his soul mate and all the rumours about his persuasion were immediately dispelled.

_To function correctly it is imperative that a large household has to have a clearly defined structure to allow for its smooth operation_ , or so the books say, but within days, despite what it said in their job descriptions she took Mrs Blake and Nigel 'below stairs' to iron out a few small inconsistencies that were starting to arise. In no uncertain terms she explained that where I was concerned I was solely her responsibility – totally and utterly. Any disagreement and I thing she would have taken them 'behind the bike shed' to sort out the small print, although Sasha didn't seem to take to her. I don't think that she ever really believed that a few days after she had been discharged from hospital I had genuinely inadvertently exited the shower straight into Sam, who was stacking a supply of warmed clean towels for us (I believe in water conservation and always 'shower with a friend' whenever possible), and to save my embarrassment she brushed aside my apologies and said 'I doubt if it will be the last time', then with a wry grimace she glanced down and continued 'perhaps it could be considered a perk of the job'.

As I always finish off my showers with a blast of cold water, it wasn't going to be a very big perk.

\---------------

'But why hadn't I use a Mk7D two seater for this trip?', I hear you say, well I was going to be longer than just a weekend in England, so I would be needing more than a few changes of shreddies so the King Air wasn't primarily Fred's transportation, it was Sam's (and my underwear); another perk of her job, and another small but important point to bear in mind was that if we had actually tried to cover that distance with two wardrobes slung beneath the wings we would have gotten about half way across the Bay of Biscay before we ran out of fuel, and started doing dinghy practice for real. Fred and her team hadn't just thumbed a lift though; they would have continued on to Eastleigh to look after Lady S whilst she was parked there, oh what a hard life my poor overworked staff have, slumming it in a 4 star hotel over Christmas.

When we touched down at Eastleigh, apart from the more than usual paparazzi, Alice was there to greet me, complete with a wheel chair; perhaps I had slightly exaggerated my landing the previous day. Pilots the World over will tell you that if you can walk (or in my case, be carried by Fred) away from the aircraft, it is a landing, if not it's a crash.

She meticulously checked me over, and after counting all my extremities finally let me walk to their limo, but I had noticed one thing quite quickly, either the Hampshire air was agreeing with her, or I was going to have to watch another nanny changing nappies; euwwwwww.

Alice and Gerry's 'little cottage' was situated in the beautiful and tranquil New Forest. It was in the National Park just outside Fordingbridge and was perfectly situated for us to visit all the rural attractions - from the heavy horses to the owl sanctuary, although I must stop jumping to conclusions, Sandy Balls is a leisure resort and caravan site – not a nudist beach.

Although the primary purpose for my visit was to spend quality time with Alice and Gerry, I just happened to have a small thing that I had to do whilst I was in Hampshire. I had been invited to become a member of the RYS, the Royal Yacht Squadron, but unfortunately it wasn't based in the New Forest, it was based at Cowes on the Isle of Wight, so I'd had Carol bring the Lady S (the floating on) to Southampton to take me over there. Do you have any idea how much it costs to cross the Solent by ferry these days? I must have saved myself an absolute fortune.

The RYS was founded in London in 1815 by forty two gentlemen that were interested in sea yachting (ocean going yachting), and had yachts no smaller than 10 Tons, but nowadays this was interpreted as a gentleman 'actively interested in yachting', which I was - and the Lady S qualified as she was seven thousand(ish) tonnes, and one of the perks of membership was that the Lady S would from then on fly the White Ensign of the Royal Navy instead of the Red Ensign (red duster) which was flown by the majority of UK registered vessels, although she would have to undergo a name change; from then on she would be known as the 'RYS Lady S'.

Carol collected me, along with Alice, Robin, their associated families and a 'few' special guests at Southampton and transported me sedately over the Solent to Cowes, although she could have chosen a better day to hang out the washing, the Lady S was dripping with bunting (flags), she was 'dressed overall', and as we dropped anchor adjacent to the Pavilion my crew were lining the decks, and I must admit that it did bring a lump to my throat, then it was time for Bob the Bosun to meet me at the bottom of the boarding ladder with the Aquarama (how on earth did they manage to get in on the act?) and transport me stylishly to the Pavilion, this was the ultra-modern shore side facility for members of the club. I was met by members of the Committee (a veritable who's who of the yachting world) and escorted up to the Castle, but fortunately I was not going to be thrown into its dungeons, I was going to meet the Admiral; who just happened to be the daddy of HRH. If he asked me for a freebee weekend at El Campo for him and his missus I was going to turn round and walk straight back out. He welcomed me to the club and formally invited me to become a member, which of course I accepted – it would have been a total waste of everybody's time if I had refused, and then after signing the register it was obviously 'over the yard arm' time somewhere in the world, as it was drinkypoo's all round, along with some nibbly things; whatever happened to cucumber sarnies?, after of course first looking out of the window at the RYS Lady S, now resplendent in her gleaming new White Ensign.

The reception following the ceremony was anything but relaxing, apart from all the demented photographers snapping away I had a veritable queue of scroungers trying to take me to one side, from the Commodore wanting to borrow the Lady S for the next America's Cup, to the Admirals offspring (HRH) pleading to use her (I hate to see grown men grovel) on his next Royal Visit. Someone even wanted to use her as the starting line at Cowes Week, but only as long as her saluting cannons worked. I wasn't absolutely sure about that, but she sure had one hell of a mean horn, and when they finally ran out of sticky buns it was time to move back on board Lady S for a formal dinner, although I must admit that I did take a quick peek out of the corner of my eye as I stepped on board, at the starboard spreader on the main mast, and watched my new burgee rise up its lanyard for the first time.

As RYS Lady S carved her way majestically out of the Solent the next day, White Ensign flapping proudly from her stern (I was taking the family around the Island on a day trip) a Royal Navy Minesweeper passed close by us, and spotting our ensign the Captain unbidden called her crew to attention and dipped her ensign in salute.

As Carol returned the courtesy I nodded over the intervening water to the Captain and thought 'size is important'.

~~~~

Chapter 17

On returning to El Campo after my extended festive season, the first 'A' list'er that I encountered as I wandered my corridors of power was Marcel, and half-jokingly I left him in no doubt about Turkey, not the Country – the feathered variety. After at least half a dozen full Christmas dinners over the preceding month if I tasted turkey again, in any form, stuffed or otherwise, before Easter - he would be history. He went a funny colour, gulped and taking the bull by the horns explained that in honour of my return, the menu-del-dia today was a full traditional English Christmas dinner – with all the trimmings, and it looked as though he would be catering for a full greenhouse. Poor Marcel, he just didn't understand the English sense of humour, of course I wouldn't sack him – just consider it a formal warning.

I finally made it to my office and slumped into my made-to-measure chair, hand crafted by the same craftsmen that provided each new President of the US of A with his Oval office chair, and in front of me was exactly what I expected, a purple folder. Its colour signified that its contents were not earth shattering, but it contained information that I was very interested in.

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Ten days before Christmas Chalkie had been sat in his chicken coop (no you cannot have a larger control tower) surveying his domain when one of his phones rang, it was the one that pilots wishing to land at El Compo sometime in the future initially rang, and the gentleman on the other end quickly explained that he didn't want to land at El Campo; he wanted to speak directly to me about a confidential matter. Normally this meant that some con artist couldn't contact me through normal channels, I had a considerable number of 'firewalls' between me and a public telephone, so was trying to come in by the back door. There was nothing unusual about this and Chalkie had perfected his patter so that he could suss out the caller and have him or her off the line, with fleas in their ear, in less than thirty seconds, but five minutes later he still hadn't made up his mind, so he decided to pass it on upstairs; although geographically it was actually downstairs. Putting him on hold he quickly bought David, who was El Campo's ruler over the Christmas period 'up to speed'. 'He had a gentleman on hold that seemed to be genuine, and from their short conversation he seemed to be a pilot that had come across something unique. He freely admitted that he had information to sell, but only to the right person, although he had urgent personal reasons for wanting a quick settlement. He really didn't want to have to go to the unscrupulous end of the market', and so after making a few quick preparations the caller was transfer through to him.

David explained that I was in England on a family holiday and wasn't expected back until the New Year, and had left explicit instructions not to be disturbed, unless the end of the world was nigh, although he (David) had full authority to act on his behalf; this was the best that he could offer.

The caller made a quick decision and briefly explained that he would not divulge his name, or the company that he worked for, or the location of his find, and then asked for David's direct telephone number and a secure Fax number. Once he had these he told David not to leave the Fax machine unattended as he would be sending through three photographs directly, and then would, after giving him time to digest their contents, call him back, and then he then hung up; just like that, and so David waited for Mr Aaron Peters in Morocco to send him the Fax. He obviously was not current in hi-tec skulduggery.

\---- a few days earlier ----

Aaron was feeling a bit lethargic as he sat at the controls of Morrelec's Bell 412 helicopter; he had just dropped off a team of engineers at one site, and was now making his way alone to another sub-station that urgently required the remainder of his cargo. Normally, for safety reasons, he would follow the line of pylons crossing the Sahara Desert below but because of the urgency of the situation he had decided to save time by taking a short cut. Over to his left was a spur of the Anti Atlas range of mountains that not only looked hostile, but in this particular area were totally impassable on foot, by camel or vehicle, but not by helicopter. Normally he would gain altitude and then fly down the least inhospitable of the passes that crossed the range, just in case he had an in-flight emergency and had to set down, but as the power was out on the grid and the engineers waiting for his cargo had virtually no protection from the blazing sun he made an exception. A quick look at his GPS and he decided to make a bee line for the sub-station, even though it would take him over a couple of sections of absolutely lethal terrain if he had to ditch. He had been flying this particular 412 from new, six months ago, and it had never had so much as a bout of hic-ups so he felt confident as he set out over the first section, although he was now wide awake.

As he continued on over the relatively safe central area he noticed a long flat area in front of him, so with adrenalin now pumping he eased the Bell even lower for a spot of high speed low level flying, and as he skimmed a few feet above the sand he mulled over in the back of his mind that perhaps he was the first person in hundreds, if not thousands of years to be in this area, and then halfway across the plain, out of the corner of his eye he noticed something very peculiar in the side of the valley wall, a door, so he slowed and side slipped over to it, and was astonished to find a large hangar like structure set into a cut in the valley wall. It was covered with sand and the doors were well camouflaged so unless someone was on top of it, it was totally invisible. It looked abandoned so he decided to continue on with his supply drop but would investigate further on his way back.

_Half an hour later he set the 412 down in a cloud of dust, shut her down and dismounted from his trusty steed, then walked over to inspect the small door set in one of the huge hangar doors, they were definitely hangar doors, but who did they belong to? Inspecting the large padlock securing the door he noticed a_ Luftwaffe eagle carrying a swastika, he knew his military history, it was his hobby, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He shook the lock but all that achieved was to shake out the sands of time. It was a stout lock, in pristine condition, the arid desert conditions were not conducive to corrosion (rust) so it was going to take a seriously large bolt cropper to get past it, and bolt croppers were not standard equipment on a helicopter, but an emergency tool box was, when overflying such desolate terrain. A squirt or two of WD40 and he attacked the lock with hammer, pliers and screwdrivers but all he achieved was to put a few scratches on it, so it was time to investigate the surrounding area and perhaps find another way inside. As he came to the end of the large doors he noticed a large red stone that was totally out of place, 'no, it could not be as simple as this' he thought as he lifted it to one side, and below it, wrapped in a greased rag was a key; obviously someone had expected to come back. Wiping the key clean he returned to the lock and inserted it, and the oil had done its job as the lock was quickly lying on top of the rag in the sand, and he tentatively pushed the door open, switched on the torch from the tool kit and almost had a heart attack.

\--------------------

David was starting to get a tad bored when suddenly the Fax machine burst into life, and as soon as the first photograph appeared it had his one hundred percent undivided attention. It was obvious that Mr. Peters had only a rather old mobile phone with an inferior in-built camera with him when he had entered the hangar, but the three grainy photos that the machine spewed out were clear enough. The first one showed two Fieseler Fi 156 Storch 2nd World War liaison aircraft, and they were in amazingly good condition. In the second one there were three Focke-Wulf Fw 190's single seat fighters – with the promise of more behind them, and the third one showed two Junkers Ju 87 Stuka dive bombers, again in amazing condition, and again with the promise of more behind them, and David immediately became very suspicious, these photos were just too good to be true.

Working on the information that he already had to hand he started a systematic search for the aircraft, and by the time Mr. Peters called him back David had checked out all the Moroccan Electricity Companies and found that only one operated Bell 412 Helicopters, Peters had let slip that he had 'set the 412 down'. He then checked that Companies web site to find out if any of their power lines went out into the desert; they had one and even indicated its route on a map. He was in the process of downloading high definition satellite imagery of the entire run when his phone rang.

'Impressed?' came the voice down the phone, and then David started to seriously interrogate him, although poor Mr. Peters didn't realize it. By the end of the call David had learned among other things that he was off to the UK for the Christmas holidays, and even narrowed it down further when he let slip 'the Fens' in his excitement when David tentatively agreed the sum of money that he mentioned, conditional on him not mentioning the find to anyone else. Just before he terminated the call he agreed to contact David the day after Boxing Day, although David had every intention of contacting him earlier, either to explain to him the error of his ways if he was wasting his time, or to impress him with his detection skills.

David had found out about the dogs leg in the power cables (there were three on the map), the impassable terrain (that narrowed it down to one), and two flat areas. It then took him almost an hour to find a straight shadow where one shouldn't exist, straight lines are virtually unheard off in nature, and a further thirty seconds to find the stone that had hidden the key, the marks in the sand where the Bell had set down, and a rag. He then started to think that perhaps Mr. Aaron Peters was not a con artist after all, and after glancing out of the window at the solitary cloud in the blue sky, he determined that the end of the world was indeed nigh, and rang Andrew.

Twenty-four hours later David sat at his desk and studied Mrs. Shelly Peter's medical history, and he now understood the reason behind the need for a quick deal, it was to buy drugs. Shelly Peters was Aaron's sister-in-law and (according to the very efficient private investigator that he had put on the case) his one and only love, although his brother Jack had been the one that had finally turned her head. Aaron had never found anyone better than Shelly so had remained single, and whenever he was in the Country he lived in the Granny annex attached to the side of their beautiful eighteenth century cottage. They had all jointly owned the property and lived in peaceful co-existence until Jack and Shelly had a tiff. Jack then went on a business trip and Aaron returned home unexpectedly and comforted his one true love, and unfortunately she reciprocated. The next morning they were mortified and agreed not to mention it again, but then two weeks later Shelly was diagnosed with cancer and they were convinced that it was punishment from on high for their indiscretion. Unfortunately the cottage was situated slap bang in the middle of an Area Health Authority that didn't have the funds for certain very expensive drugs, so quickly their joint savings started to disappear as they paid for them with their own money, and finally, in desperation, they sold Shelly's beloved cottage to the lowest bidder, because he assured them that they could remain there as tenants infinitum, on condition that they would be responsible for the upkeep of the property, but then unfortunately along came the floods and down went their savings again. They were now considering Council housing as they could not continue maintaining the listed building and purchase the expensive drugs that were keeping Shelly alive at the same time.

As David read the comprehensive report he knew that the investigator was not a super-sleuth, he was a vintage car enthusiast who had parked his Mk1 Cortina (the ones with the round head and tail lights) at the bottom of their garden, flicked a switch that disabled its engine then walked up to their front door, rang the bell and asked if he could use their phone to ring the AA. Fortunately Aaron volunteered to have 'look' at the car first and after a few minutes miraculously got the engine started, and as a sign of his appreciation the intrepid investigator offered to buy Aaron a drink (or three) at a nearby hostelry. Two hours later Aaron was almost in tears as he recited his life history, although he never did divulge where the windfall that he was hoping to receive was going to come from, just that it would go straight into the pot to provide for Shelly and the cottage, he would still have to continue working in Morocco.

Christmas Day was not a day of joy in the Peters household; Shelly was having a 'bad day', and Jack was just starting to make their Christmas dinner (Spaghetti Bolognese) when the door-bell rang. 'I wonder if it's Father Christmas' he mused as he made his way to the door; he was pretty close. Mr. Jeffries, Shelly's consultant stood in the pouring rain (after all it was England) with five people behind him.

'May we come in please?' he pleaded, and after they had all removed their coats Jack had another shock, two of them were nurses. Mr. Jeffries then indicated to the distinguished looking gentleman that seemed to be in charge of the others and said, 'may I introduce Professor Walters', and then went on to explain that he was the head of the Cancer Care and Research unit at a very prominent London hospital. Well that was his job done, he could now go back to his Turkey safe in the knowledge that his hospitals scanner appeal had just exceeded its target; exit Mr. Jeffries.

Professor Walters then took over and indicating to the other gentleman, 'this is Doctor Jameson, my Senior Registrar, and I think that the uniforms tell you what Doreen and Sylvia do - are you Aaron or Jack?'

'Jack, what are you doing here?'

'Going to save your wife's life I hope, could I have a word with Aaron please?'

'AARON GET YOUR BACKSIDE OUT HERE NOW!!!'

Professor Walters handed Aaron a letter with an old fashioned red sealing wax seal on it, and asked him if Jack knew about the Stuka's. Professor Walters hadn't a clue about any Stuka's and neither did Jack, so he instructed Aaron to open the letter in the kitchen, 'but first can my staff please meet Shelly'.

Dear Mr. Peters, or may I call you Aaron?

David Williams my Director of Security informs me that you have come across something incredible in your travels. He has carried out an investigation, the details of which I will not bore you with at this time, but suffice to say we now both believe you to be the 'genuine article' – his words not mine.

As an act of good faith I have arranged for Professor Walters and his team (as a matter of extreme urgency) to take over the care of Shelly, your sister-in-law. He is one of the Country's most eminent Cancer Specialists and will from now on (with all your approvals of course) be treating her, not with the drugs that you have been so selflessly providing, but with the very latest ones that have only just been approved. I assure you that this is not a short term act of kindness on my behalf, Professor Walters now has the funding to treat Shelly with any and all drugs, medicines and techniques that become available in the future.

Please pass on to your Sister-in-law my very best wishes, and I look forward to meeting you all in the very near future.

Andrew Michaels (AKA Santa Claus)

p.s. please find enclose an aerial photograph that may be of interest to you. Ho Ho Ho

Aaron looked at the attached photo, it was a typical intelligence photo with points of interest highlighted, Stone – recently moved, Marks in the sand indicating that a helicopter fitted with skids (Bell 412 or similar) had recently landed there, Shadow line – could indicate a building of substance deliberately camouflaged beneath it. Cloth – most likely grease impregnated - with imprint of a key in it.

'Drat', he thought that he had been so clever, but at least he knew that he had made the right decision.

Jack and Shelly questioned him endlessly as the nurses first inserted a cannula into her arm, and then attached an intravenous drip. 'I have made a promise, but I am sure that all will be revealed soon' he told them, and left it at that, then Dr Jameson gently removed a phial from a small cooler box that they had bought with them and quickly injected its contents into the cannula, then everything else was forgotten as all eyes turned to Shelly.

An hour later I rang the Peters doorbell, introduced myself and had a quick chat with each of them, as an ambulance was due in forty-five minutes to transfer her to Professor Walters private ward. Shelly had already started to feel 'funny', but he assured me that in the early stages of her treatment this was a good sign, and I told her that after her stay in hospital she was more than welcome to convalesce in the sun at El Campo. Jack was a babbling wreck, but Aaron was full of thanks, and in total awe of David, then he invited me into the kitchen for a cuppa, and out of earshot we got down to the serious business.

\---------------------

David had been very busy since that first telephone call, and by midnight on the twentieth we had a plan. The first thing to be sorted out was Mrs. Peters, and Caroline quickly solved that problem, she roused everyone in National Health Service ('what Christmas holiday? – never heard of it') threw loads of my money at the relevant cash strapped appeals and research projects and bingo - sorted.

Second thing was what to do about the find, secrecy was obviously paramount so the fewer people that were in the loop the better, and as Aaron (it was too complicated to say Mr. Peters – which one?) had proved that he was able to keep the secret, he was an obvious choice to be on the inside, but in what capacity?, then I had one of my ideas, how about as my personal helicopter pilot, although I didn't actually own one. I had often pondered as I climbed into yet another charter helicopter that it would be much easier if I had my own, at least I would know which side the entrance door was on, so, over a conference telephone link \- 'Teddy, how easy is it be to buy a helicopter?'

' _What - over Christmas?' he moaned._

'What Christmas' I snapped down the line, and that was sorted, but what type? Carol, who just happened to be in David's office at the time, ear-wigging (another of Topsy's sayings), solved that one – 'one with wheels on please, skids mess up my deck something chronic, and so Teddy quickly found a high specification _Agusta Westland AW109S Grand that was ready for delivery, but had no one to be delivered to. All it needed was registering and another lick of paint – 'ring HHA I told him, they owe me a big favour'. Another problem sorted. Everything was going fine – but no one apart from Aaron had actually seen the dusty aircraft, I didn't even know how many aircraft there actually were._

' _Leave that with me' said David, in his 'plausible deniability' voice. Then it was down to the logistics of actually getting them out of Morocco, and a rough plan quickly came together._

\--Back to Christmas day at the Peters household--

As we sat in the kitchen, dunking out pyramids, he again thanked me most profusely, but by this time he had had time to think, and realised that the package that I had put in place for Shelly's long term care had not only extended her life expectancy considerably, but that the sums involved to fund such a package would far exceed the 'finder's fee' that he had agreed with David. 'How can I ever re-pay you?'

'How about by becoming my personal rotary wing pilot – when can you start?'

It took us less than thirty seconds to sort out the nitty-gritty of the deal, as Morrelec had an annoying little habit of permanently losing his pay cheques, it had happened three times in the past year so he thought that that should be sufficient grounds for 'in lieu of notice', and then I told him what he would be 'driving'. 'OOOOH ain't we the posh one then' he said approvingly; another one that had a lot to learn about me, and as there wasn't a lot that he could do apart from hold Shelly's hand (and he quickly understood that I knew all about 'that' as well) I had a few jobs for him to do,

1 - Go and check on the registration and preparation of my new 'chopper', and remember Christmas is cancelled.

2 - Think of a name beginning with 'T'.

3 - When you are satisfied with everything, fly it down to HHA and twiddle your thumbs whilst they spray it – and don't worry about the colour scheme, they know exactly what it is.

4 - Hire a ground crew on a monthly contract to carry out the servicing in the short term.

5 – Set in motion the hiring of permanent ground crew, but have a word with John first.

6 - Arrange for ample fuel, oils, spares and any specialist support equipment that you might need to be delivered to El Campo and the Lady S by a week next Friday, and ditto John again.

7 - Fly the said machine to the Isle of Wight and complete a short 'landing on a moving ship' course.

8 - Fly 'whatever its name is' and your mechanics to El Campo, and don't let them get any grease on the seats – any questions?

He was a quick learner and readily agreed, and then it was fond farewells and I was back into the chartered 109S Grand that was parked in a field just down the road. I thought that I might as well get a taste of what was to come, then it was back to Robin and his family for my third Christmas dinner (with all the trimmings) of the season, I wonder if David could put out a 'contract' on Bernard Matthews for me?, although as we lifted off I looked down at their cottage and thought, 'perhaps I should give Aaron a little bonus when all the aircraft are safely out of Morocco'.

\---- and finally - back to the new year \----

After I finished scanning the contents of the folder I rang Carol, 'what time are we leaving?' I had only just arrived home but it was quite literally a flying visit, I was off on yet another jaunt, this time to Morocco.

'Just as soon as Aaron arrives with 'Twinkle' (I couldn't persuade him to choose another name – it was Shelley's nickname)' she said, 'he should have arrived two days ago but he is stuck in France with a volcanic rash - or some such thing'.

~~~~

Chapter 18

Carol dropped anchor just above El Khabta, a small village on Morocco's Atlantic coast, which would have surprised a lot of people as I had told everyone that would listen that we were going to Gran Canaria. El Khabta was as close as we could get to the hangar without fitting wheels to the Lady S, so James and Aaron (who could speak passable Berber) went ashore with a pocket full of Dirham and US Dollars, and came back a couple of hours later with visa's for all and sundry ('please, just fill in your names, please Sir'), and a permit to fly anywhere we liked, apart from the disputed territories. Fortunately the hangar was well to the north so no one seemed in the slighted bit interested in the comings and goings of an eccentric rich European who wanted to fly around their desert and mountains taking photographs of sand dunes and rocks, just as long as the price was right, although the permit to fly, issued by a local shopkeeper who assured Aaron that he was the duly appointed local agent for issuing such permits, looked as though it had been hand written on the back of a receipt for a goat.

Half an hour later Twinkle lifted of the Lady S's flight deck, with yours truly in the co-pilots seat, and Fred and a team of mechanics clutching some big boxes in the rear. I'd had yet another 'full frank and meaningful' with Teddy, he was seriously having problems getting his head around the simple concept of 'pampering to my every whim', when, after having had a quiet word in Topsy's 'shell like'(he had given me the names of four of his mechanics that had experience in working on vintage aircraft - and could also keep their 'cake holes' shut), Teddy had this quaint notion that the working up of 'his' display team had priority when it came to manpower, so yet again I had to 'picturize him'. All the Hunters were now fully serviceable following my little mishap, and I had actually flown Lady S home, and that had been our first 'full, frank and meaningful', of the year, but I had a feeling in my bones that it wouldn't be our last.

\----------------------

John, my boss of aircraft maintenance had turned up unannounced at Robin's home a week before I planned to return to Spain. He was mortified that he was even there but something was upsetting him, HHA had contacted him, telling him that the Lady S was ready for collection \- even before Fred had started on her 'journey of discovery' in the cockpit, John had arranged for a Hercules to transport her – Lady S, not Fred - to Dorset, they had the specialists available there to repair her - but when he had informed Teddy, and suggested that he send a crew to prepare it so that I could fly it back, he had been 'most emphatic' that he was to do no such thing, it was the start of the workup to the new aerobatic season and he needed every mechanic to be available to work on 'his' aircraft, 'that' machine would just have to wait. John fully understood the concept of 'pamper and whim' so after the ugly showdown with Teddy he reluctantly decided to go behind his back.

To save dragging John into it I innocently rang HHA and enquired after the health of the Lady S.

' _Fine' they said, 'she was ready for collection, and they were positive that they had already let my technical staff know a few days earlier'._

I then rang Teddy, who off-handedly agreed that I might just be correct, 'but could I ring him back in a few hours as he was in Zebedee busy getting the pilots back into the saddle after their holiday', and almost hung up on me. The pilots being put through the mill were then treated to ten minutes of silence as I read him the riot act, or rather my version of it. He was my Head of Aviation Services, and as such I was without hesitation his number one priority, he tried to interrupt me at that point – big mistake, and thirty minutes later Fred and her team lifted off the runway in the back of the G450; he could finish breaking in the pilots mańana.

\------------------------------

As we flew deeper into Morocco the terrain started to get very sandy, and then hilly, until finally we came to that 'lethal' gash. Aaron had not exaggerated, and thankfully he had the controls, as I kept my eyes firmly closed until we were safely over it, and then we headed towards the plain.

As we circled around, the hangar came into view, and Aaron was mortified, outside the supposedly abandoned hangar were some tents and a Land Rover, and he quickly skidded to the hover. As we sat there three figures came out of the door, two with rifles cradled in their arms and one in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts, and they stood silently watching us, the situation had all the makings of a Mexican standoff.

'Ok' I fearlessly said 'let's taxi over and see what we have here then', so he reluctantly lowered the undercarriage and gingerly eased Twinkle over to just in front of the men, and set her down, was this going to be his shortest period of employment ever, he nervously thought.

Behind us the passenger door flew open and Fred was down the steps like a racing greyhound, and she covered the ground between us and the figure in the brightly colored shirt in milli-seconds, removed the tea-towel covering his face and started kissing him, now that did surprise me, I didn't realize that Fred and Topsy were an item.

\--------------------

Life was looking pretty good to Topsy, he had a job to die for, a blossoming relationship with Fred, was obviously in Mr. Michael's inner sanctum as he knew all about Morocco, in fact the only blot on his landscape was something that David had just said – 'they (David, Pierre and himself) would most likely be 'dropping in' to have a 'recce' in four days' time', somehow he didn't think it was anything like 'dropping in' to see Aunty Maude for a cuppa on the way back from Margate. Earlier that morning Pierre had 'dropped in' to pick up his Passport, which was now never very far from his person after he had picked up an on-the-spot fine for not having it on him at a Guardia Civil checkpoint, which had then been doubled as he was 'brassic', and the Officer had to 'escort' him to the cash point to pay it, and now it lay back on his desk. 'I wonder what he needed it for?' he mused, and opened it up – and promptly had a 'flash forward' - at precisely this time in four days' time he would be stepping off the brow of the ferry from Almeria in Spain onto terra firma an Nador in Morocco, it must be true, the visa and entry stamps into Morocco were already in his passport (although the ink was still wet), and unbelievably the flash forward turned out to be almost spot on; the only difference was in the mode of transport.

David knew somebody, who knew somebody that knew how to contact the operators of a couple of C130 Hercules transport aircraft that specialized in doing peculiar things (for civilian aircraft anyway), and now, at the appointed time and date Topsy very reluctantly found himself standing on the edge of the loading ramp of one of the Hercules, although it was not one small step onto Moroccan soil, it was many thousands of feet, the aircraft in question was flying at eight thousand feet and he wasn't holding on to anything, but apparently he was perfectly safe though; David was making sure of that, he had Topsy clipped to his stomach. Then David leaned forward and Topsy thought that the end of his world was nigh. Eventually, over his helmet intercom David persuaded him to open his eyes - briefly, and he found himself looked at a grinning Pierre a few feet away. They were all free falling towards the ground at an alarming rate so he decided to close his eyes again, then suddenly David opened the parachute of their tandem rig and a few moments later he gently touched them down a few feet from a 'palletized' Land Rover, and then Pierre followed suite, a few feet from them (Topsy was still not into metrification).

About half an hour earlier during 'their' flight from Gran Canaria to Mauritania one of the planes had mysteriously lost cabin pressurization so had to descend to below ten thousand feet (and unfortunately off the rather basic air traffic control radar screen covering that area), and the other one of course had to keep in company (for safety reasons), and as David detached him, the aircraft that they had only recently vacated came in low, very low, and out of its open loading ramp came a parachute, attached to yet more pallets which all came safely to a standstill about twenty meters away. Topsy was convinced that its wingtip had passed over his head, and then both aircraft continued on their way to Mauritania, nobody in Morocco any the wiser as to their where-a-bouts.

\--------------------

As he shut the engines down I explained to Aaron about 'plausible deniability', and that for the past week or so Topsy, David and Pierre had been pottering about in the hangar.

Along with the Land Rover, on its own special air drop pallet, David and his team had sufficient food and liquids (of various kinds) on the remaining pallets to sustain them for at least a month (in case of any unforeseen circumstances), as well as a satellite communication system, portable generators, floodlights, tents (with portable air con of course), fuel, video and still camera's, a small steam roller, and a few luxuries to make their stay more comfortable, although I hadn't a clue where the rifles had come from. Why on earth did they need a steam roller I thought? (It was actually diesel driven), to compact the sand and iron our any bumps on the 'landing strip to be', to ensure that it would be firm enough to take the Hercules at a later date.

When the blades finally came to a halt I exited the helicopter and went to look inside the hangar. Topsy had rigged the floodlights so it would give me a good first impression, and what an impression it was, I had seen all the photos, and even a video, but it did not prepared me for what met my eyes.

~~~~

Chapter 19

Oberstleutnant (Lieutenant Colonel) Fritz von Beneckendorf of the Luftwaffe sat in his office on the outskirts of Casablanca followed the to-ings and fro-ings of Montgomery and Field Marshal Rommel (an uncle of his, many times removed) in Egypt and Libya, and decided that perhaps it was about time to prepare for a 'worst case scenario'. He had been tasked with forming an anti-tank unit that would decimate the dreaded tanks of the British Eighth Army if they ever managed to get as far as Morocco, but nobody took him seriously until Uncle Erwin took a day off from his war in Libya and popped in for his birthday party. Suddenly he had 'clout' and lots of it.

First 'Intelligence' found the perfect site for his marauder unit, (if the dumkoff British ever made it this far), but there was a small, almost insignificant problem, it was inaccessible by road, so commandeering every engineering unit that he could lay his hands on he tasked them with building him one. The whole project was a masterpiece of German engineering and ingenuity, and by the time it was completed a new road had been blasted up the long evil looking canyon, and a superbly constructed and camouflaged hangar had been built on the plain at the end of it, although the project did consume vast resources that were urgently required elsewhere, a minor point. He decided that his unit would have the best equipment available so as factories in the Third Reich slaved away to provide him with the latest anti-tank aircraft, he and his growing band of technicians scoured every nook and cranny to equip the clandestine base, and then finally all he needed were the aircraft, and aviation fuel of course, and after dropping his Uncles name a few times he was promised that they would be arriving 'soon'.

Finally the big day arrived, and his aircraft, which had been on one of the last freighters to arrive in Morocco, circled overhead, and one by one they landed, although the last two nearly didn't make it, the mechanics at the assembly unit didn't have a lot of fuel to spare, just enough to get them to their new unit. As the Mechanics towed each aircraft inside the now bustling hangar Herr Oberstleutnant felt proud of what he had achieved on behalf of his beloved Führer, the eighth of November 1942 would be a day for him to remember with pride, but there was still that small problem of the fuel. He made his way to the radio room to personally expedite its speedy arrival, but unfortunately the duty Feldwebel (Sergeant) was having problems of his own. Apparently the British and Americans had not read Oberstleutnant Fritz von Beneckendorf's paper on how the war in Northwest Africa was to be conducted, so they had devised a plan of their own, and entitled it 'Operation Torch', commencement date 8/11/42, and it was quickly pointed out to him, by a very junior Officer that unless he had some 'flyable' operational aircraft then 'Shut up and stop cluttering up the airwaves'.

Four days later he finally arranged for the last of a fuel dumps supply of fuel to be transported to him, in the last remaining tankers, rather than let it be blown up before the approaching Americans arrived, and the convoy commander agreed to rendezvous at the concealed entrance to the road leading up to his airfield, but how would he find the concealed entrance? That was easy, one of his _Storch_ s would be circling it, and then drop him further instructions on how to negotiate the twisting road. The next day all the remaining dregs of fuel were drained out of the other aircraft, and transferred into Leutnant Gunther Angern's Fieseler Fi 156 Storch C3, and he set off to meet up with the tankers at the appointed time with almost half a tank of fuel. This should have been more than sufficient for the task in hand, but unfortunately the convoy was a little late, so he had to orbit around for a while, but finally a dust storm signified the arrival of the tankers. As he started his approach run to drop the instructions a flight of Grumman F4F Wildcats from an Escort Carrier patrolling off shore beat him to it, and within a few minutes any chance of his units' aircraft joining in this man's war went up in ten columns of smoke. Once the aircraft departed to their carrier to re-fuel and re-arm he circled the funeral pyres but saw no sign of life, which was just as well as he had no intention of landing on the shifting sands below, and then an idea started to form in the back of his mind. 'Did he have enough fuel to make it to civilisation, British or American it didn't matter, just as long as he could see out the remainder of the war in the comfort of an allied POW camp?' Then something else formed in the back of his mind, the business end of a Luger 'Parabellum' 9mm pistol, he had forgotten all about the SS-Sturmscharführer (Sergeant Major) sat quietly in the back, just waiting for a situation like this to arise. As he glided into land, the Argus As 10 starved of fuel, he tried to get as close to the hangar door as possible, it would save the mechanics having to tow it halfway across the sandy plain, just to put it alongside the other Storch, the six Junkers Ju 87D Stuka dive bombers and Eight Focke-Wulf Fw 190 A-4/Trop fighters (both the latter types were fitted with two 37mm anti-tank cannons apiece) that were already in there, but now had nowhere to go.

~~~~

Chapter 20

David had found out the history of the unit from the personal diary of Oberstleutnant von Beneckendorf (Maria had interpreted the down loaded pages) that he must have accidently left behind in his desk draw, along with his fountain pen and a photograph of presumably his beautiful wife and young children, in the rush to get back to civilisation, although it seemed not to have been that much of a rush. The Oberstleutnant knew that his Führer had a master plan, so he had all the aircraft placed in 'long term storage' before they departed. The aircraft were jacked up, batteries removed and all the systems drained. The ammunition from all the under wing 37mm anti-tank cannon and the 20mm wing cannons were removed, and then every orifice on each aircraft was carefully sealed. The Engineering Officer then concocted a preservative that was liberally applied to all their exterior skins, and I thought, as I stared in amazement, 'he should definitely have patented it', it worked spectacularly. I realized that all the leather and rubber would be perished, and the fabric covering of the Storch's would be brittle, but that was about all, I guessed that it wouldn't take much to get them all in the air again. As I slowly walked around the hangar I realised that I had stepped back into history, everything was as if the crews had just gone down to the local for quick pint, or to visit the Mary Celeste, and not only had the aircraft been prepared for their next masters but also the offices, accommodation, kitchen and stores; it was obvious that the last thing that Herr Oberstleutnant had done before he locked the door and placed the key under the stone was carry out an inspection. Everything was tidy, there wasn't even any rubbish in the bins, and even the dust was not especially thick, apparently after the aircraft had been dust proofed so had the hangar, and even the small personnel door had been sealed after it had been closed for the last time, but what had happened to everyone, surely someone would have come back after the war to investigate?

David found the answer to that question on day three of their adventure; it had puzzled them all so when Maria translated the diary he had scoured the satellite imagery and found the road through the canyon. It was obvious to him that the convoy, with all the personnel on board, had blown up sections of the road behind them, dissuading any inquisitive Bedouin from going any further, and at the entrance to the canyon he found the road, or what was left of it. They had obviously used the last of their explosives to induce a rock slide, and then driven off into the desert, but unfortunately not very far, but that was for day four, and an internet search.

\---------------------

Lieutenant Commander Dabrowski USN was leading half his squadron of F4F Wildcats on a sweep along the coastal plain and decided to re-visit the spot where one of his flights had gotten lucky a week earlier, who knows there might be more tankers about, and as the burned out tankers came into view, just approaching them was a convoy of trucks crammed full off personnel, although they didn't look like soldiers, so he sent Lieutenant JG 'Buster' Gutt to investigate. It wasn't uncommon for such convoys, especially with Vichy French or Italians on board, on seeing an Allied plane to disembark and start waving anything white in the air, and as Jug slowed and started to approach the lorries this started to happen, until (David presumed) the Waffen-SS detachment soldiers, spread throughout the convoy, opened up on him with heavy machineguns. Although the SS detachment was attached to the unit more to keep an eye on the airmen rather than protect them, Jug and his aircraft were shredded, and it tumbled out of the sky, but it had hardly come to rest before Lt Cmdr. Dabrowski and the other fourteen aircraft went line astern and swept in to take revenge, and what followed wouldn't go down in the annuls of history as a glorious action, it was all but embarrassingly forgotten about as Jug had been a popular pilot on board the escort carrier, and had only days before found out that he was now a father. The F4F's swept in, one after another and hosed the convoy, and anything or anyone that moved, with their four .50 calibre Browning's, and long after returning fire had petered out they continued circling and sweeping in again and again, until all four hundred and fifty rounds from each gun had been expended, and there was no sign of life. In a final fit of remorse for sending Jug to his death, 'Dab' slid his hood back and flew slowly down the burning vehicles, emptying his Colt .45 service automatic into the carnage as he went. Even if anybody was unfortunate enough to have survived below, he knew that they wouldn't get far in this heat, and he hoped that it would be getting even hotter.

\--------------------

After David had recited his research I realised that this wasn't just a jolly to collect some old war birds, people had lived and died here in this desolate part of Morocco, so we all sat down in their air-conditioned tent and saluted fallen comrades, and consumed a significant part of the away teams 'little extras' (with the exception of Aaron of course). Add to the list of places to visit - the German Embassy and their version of the War Graves Commission.

In the past week, whilst David and Pierre came to terms with the steam roller and itemizing and photographing every scrap of paper and piece of equipment, Topsy had settled down to some aircraft mechanicary and had removed both sets of the Storchs wheels, plus two sets of Fw 190 and Stuka wheels. Whilst we could not yet remove any of the artefacts that we found, I stretched my luck a bit and hoped that no one would mind if I 'borrowed' some, as long as I returned them in better condition. I had scoured the permit to fly (on the back of that receipt for a goat) and nowhere did it actually state the type of aircraft that I was permitted to use, so if the Americans could land and launch a C130 Hercules (21 times) on and off the USS Forrestal, then so could I, off the Lady S, and an hour later one taxied up beside Twinkle, to disgorged yet more comforts of home, and specialist equipment that Topsy had requested. After almost being knocked over by _Michael_ as he climbed the ramp, Topsy stowed the wheels safely in the hold, to be transported back to El Campo where the next job for _Michael_ would be to find tyres that would fit them. At this stage in wasn't necessary for _Michael_ to have the correct aircraft tyres, anything would do, just as long as my new finds could be pushed into the back of a Hercules; but who was _Michael_?

~~~~

Chapter 21

\---Just before Christmas---

Even as I stuffed yet another mouthful of stuffing down my throat I knew that if this was not a hoax I would need a list, whenever we made preparations to go away Sheila always had to have her lists, and for our larger adventures she even had a list of the various lists that were in use, so I gradually got used to them and now I was starting one of my own. I knew that this find would be destined for the front pages of most national and international papers so I had to think carefully before it was made public. I could just imagine a hoard of souvenir hunters converging on the hangar and prizing off bits of the aircraft with a screwdriver, causing irreparable damage to its surrounding area, so what I wanted, what I really really wanted – was a news blackout until I had everything tucked safely away in a controllable area. My Hunters were using X and Y hangars, so how about Zulu hangar, it was the largest of all my hangars, in its heyday it had been an aircraft storage facility, but now it was empty, and it would be perfect; so over the Christmas break David and Topsy purloined it.

Topsy had a smidging of 'historic' aircraft experience, he had once sat in the cockpit of a Spitfire, but he had become a Royal Navy Air Mechanic after it had joined the jet age with a vengeance, all front, and most second line aircraft had jet propulsion, although the Gannets did still have propellers, so I needed someone 'on board' that knew about that era.

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As he grew up Michael Leigh was not one for charging around shooting Indians or Germans, he was quite content to build his Kiel craft Spitfire or assemble his Airfix Me 109, he didn't mind what aircraft type it was, just as long as it had a propeller (or 2, or 3, or 4) on it. On leaving Technical College he only sent out one request for employment, he wanted an apprenticeship at the local aircraft maintenance and restoration company at nearby Duckford Aerodrome, and he was successful, and although he had to learn all the latest maintenance techniques, all he really wanted to do was to apply them to the aircraft in the restoration division. He had been with the company for fifteen years when it decided to specialise in corporate jet maintenance and put its small restoration division up for sale.

Michael persuaded his Bank Manager that it was a sound gamble, sorry investment, and so overnight he went from deputy Manager of airframe restoration to Boss, and it turned out that the Bank Manager had a shrewd eye for business as over the years his company grew, gaining a reputation second to none in the restoration business, so it was no surprise that on Christmas Eve, before I had even seen my aircraft or even met Aaron, I was standing beside him in front of one of his Companies hangars, waiting for David and Topsy to arrive. The complex was of course closed for the holiday period but Maria had successfully conveyed to him that it might not be just a 'flight of fancy' on my part for wanting to 'as a matter of urgency' have a conducted tour by the CEO, and he did the tour bit to perfection. An hour later, after he had explained the on-going work on an ex Spanish Air Force Hispano Buchon (basically a Messerschmitt Bf109G with a Rolls Royce Merlin engine) I asked him if he had ever worked on any other German WW2 era aircraft, in particular Fw 190's or Stuka's. He explained that they had just done some work on a 'new build' Fw 190 but had never worked on a Stuka, 'why?'

I had decided as we walked around that I could work with this man and so David, right on cue, removed the three grainy photographs from his briefcase and handed them to me, and I placed them down on a nearby bench. Three hours later David, Topsy and Michael lifted off in my G450 and headed towards El Campo, Michael with his unopened Christmas presents in his suitcase.

\----Back to the future present----

Michael was the first one down the ramp of that first fixed wing aircraft to land at the airfield in almost seventy years, and niftily side stepping Topsy and his wheels he made a bee line for the hangar, it took them two days to get him out again.

The second Herci-bird to arrive delivered special ground handling equipment, egg boxes, padded poles, loads of plastic boxes with locks on, and Marcus – he now had another title 'keeper of the keys'. There were too many things that could go 'missing' around the hangar and stores so Michael suggested that everything should be transported securely to Zulu hangar, but it would be a mammoth logistical task to record and pack everything so it was 'Marcus – grab your sandals and a biro', but why did I need egg boxes? These boxes weren't for eggs, they were for aircraft wings and other delicate parts, and were very heavy long thin boxes, divided internally up into squares. They were well padded on the top, and equally well padded poles could be slid into any of the squares, one either side of say a wing, supporting it in the upright position. As each wing would require two boxes and four poles I would need an awful lot of boxes, so along with them came a fork lift truck, Marcus would soon be transport co-ordinator as well. As that second Hercules lifted off in a cloud of sand, transporting a reluctant Michael back to Mi Casa for a change of undies I looked around the site. A small tented city was starting to form to the side of the hangar, and there were an awful lot of people 'sworn to secrecy' starting to appear, including some bomb disposal experts, it was really about time for me to extract my digit and get to work before they all died of boredom, so it was into Twinkle, back to (up until now) a very redundant Lady S, and then up anchor and we all sailed merrily up the coast. We passed Casablanca and turned smartly into the mouth of the River Bou Regreg where Rabat, the Capital of Morocco was situated, but not too far, apparently there was a silt problem, and the first person to come up the ladder was Saïd, one of Vicente's partners. Saïd was born in Morocco, but at the age of twelve his parents had taken him from Rabat to Spain, where he quickly picked up Spanish and had no trouble moving into further education, eventually qualifying as an Abagado (solicitor). Vicente had spotted a rising star, so Saïd was now back in Rabat negotiating, on my behalf, the removal of the 'not really very valuable' antiquities, and aparantly I had an appointment with the Minister of 'Antiquities and all things old' the following morning.

Aaron eased a highly polished Twinkle, complete with its real gold stripes down the sides (they appreciated little touches like that), onto the front lawn of the Ministry, and Saïd and I were escorted inside to meet the Kings close relative. Saïd had been doing sterling work negotiating the terms of the transfer of the 'not really very valuable – but we might as well take them off your hands whilst we are here' antiquities for a few days, but now they had reached the 'delicate' stage of the proceeding - money had been mentioned. Although no representative of the Minister had actually visited the site they instinctively knew (despite what Saïd said) the value of such a find, so as negotiations progressed (from Dirham, through Euros and onto US Dollars) it was time for a personal appearance, and after the usual preliminaries we all sat around a beautiful table, and scared to death to blink, just in case it cost me a small fortune. The Minister had in front of him a formidable looking form, at least twenty pages thick, and despite all the negotiations so far only the front page had been filled it, my name, address, telephone number and bank details, and he sat facing me with a stony face, it was time for me to pull something astounding out of the bag, so I reached into the bag and removed a booklet and a form, and with an equally stony face I slid the booklet, entitled 'how to open your very own numbered bank account in Switzerland', and a completed application form in front of him.

He glanced contemptuously down at them (he already had two), and then slid a very small piece of paper of his own over to me, which had a very large number written on it.

I glanced down at it, and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

'Right' he said, and signed the last page of the said formidable form. 'If you wouldn't mind filling the rest of it in for me at your leisure I would be much obliged. I just hate form filling', and passed it over to me, I hope Aaron hadn't switched the engines off yet.

In the time that it took Aaron to fly me to the Airport, to reconnect me with my Gulfstream, the first Hercules had already lifted off from El Campo.

When all the aircraft and artefacts were safely in Zulu hangar I started to relax, but Michael then got out his list and started to get busy. Early on in our negotiations we had agreed that all restoration work on the actual airframes (with the exception of one Storch) would be done at El Campo, it made sense, I had the security and space (as well as the money to get the best specialists in), and at the top of the said list was 'have everything checked by the experts' so anyone with an 'antiques or vintage aircraft' related job description descended on El Campo, there were experts not only interested in the aircraft but also the flying clothing, technical books, the weaponry and just about everything else that had been flown over; there was even someone over the moon over Herr von Beneckendorf's desk, what a sad life some people have, although not all boxes with locks on went to the hangar. R.H.I.P. (rank has its privileges) – two boxes, one full of aviator's sunglasses and the other with aircrew chronometers (watches to the uninitiated) inside found their way into my safe, they would make ideal thank you presents for Aaron, David, Pierre, Topsy, Marcus and Michael when the time came, plus me and a few honoured visitors.

Second on his list was to let all the aviation magazines have a heyday, although under the watchful eye of my new curator (AKA Marcus).

Third was to set up a 'production line' to try and make all the aircraft airworthy, even ones that were earmarked for aircraft museums, and to round up a team of specialist engineers to supervise the 'volunteers' that were coming out of the woodwork. Almost all restoration schemes rely heavily on enthusiastic amateurs, and requests to help 'at their own expense' were flowing in, so Michael and I devised a cunning plan. Each aircraft would have a number of proven amateurs assigned to it, and as it approached the beginning of its restoration they would be flown out, accommodated and fed by yours truly, until their aircraft had successfully test flown, then they would be flown home again (perhaps after being strip searched), that way as many serious enthusiasts as possible would be able to experience the pleasure of a successful restoration, yet another job for my accommodation officer (AKA Marcus) – one day I will have to sit down and write him a proper job description, I had inherited him along with El Campo and he sort of just 'did things' for everyone.

There was no rush to start the restorations so 'the week after Easter' was pencilled in, although Michael estimated that if everything went according to plan the whole project would take a year to eighteen months, give or take, which led to item number four, but before that I first had to fend off a load of my new best friends.

As I may have occasionally mentioned before, there is no such thing as a free lunch, so my freebee lunches started to come home to roost. I started to have visits from some of my new 'Best Friends Forever' that were 'just going to be in the area, so could we pop in for a quick decco', and one of the first was a World class collector of vintage aircraft, only he kept them all to himself, so after I had given him the conducted tour of Zulu, he gave me his shopping list, 'I'll have one of those (a Ju 87), two of those (Fw 190's), 6 of those (flying suites) etc', but when I pointed out to him that I would only be 'loaning' them to people, organisations or museums that would be flying or exhibiting them to the wider general public, not to private collectors, he did what he usually did in those stiuations, he offered me 'silly money'. When I politely refused he doubled it, and it was only after I pointed out to him that I was not interested in his Dollars, 'after all I have a lot more than you do' he got the message and stormed off; I guess there will be no more free lunches from that neck of the woods.

~~~~

Chapter 22

Normally the press treat me with a modicum of respect as I never actively seek publicity, although one particular tabloid regularly pushed its luck, but finally in February (it must have been a quiet news month) they overstepped the mark big time. They had recently run several articles saying that I was hording the 'treasure trove from the desert' (although I hadn't told anybody **which** desert) all to myself, even though it was now general knowledge that I would be 'loaning' almost everything, in almost all cases 'permanently', out to deserving causes. For some reason Mr Morris, the owner of the Daily Comet, and the father of one of first people to receive an 'on your bike sunshine - they are not going to private collectors' letter from Maria, seemed to have selective amnesia on that minor point, even after my English Solicitors had pointed this out to him. His son was the type of 'Collector' who collected anything, just as long as it was rare, and horded it away; he couldn't even fly, and the following day there was a front page article about Alice and her brief foray into the alternative lifestyle, obviously they had contacted Burt at HM Prison Holloway, and the day after that there was a piece about my 'estranged' son selling me his kidney just to get his hands on some of my money'.

My Solicitors were furiously seeking an injunction when I received a phone call from a distraught Emma, my daughter-in-law. Whilst trying to obtain some follow-up photos of her and Mark (my grandson) at Thorpe Park, a staff photographer from the Daily Comet had been 'slightly over-enthusiastic in trying to get a _legitimate_ close-up' (according to a half-hearted apology from Mr Morris's P.A.) and smashed his camera into Mark's face, at the same time pressing the trigger. Mark was now in hospital, blind, with a broken nose and requiring a large number of stitches in his small face; he was only just four years old.

War had now been declared.

Within an hour the injunction had been served. If Mr Morris, the Comet, or any publications that he may (or may not) own - now, in the past, or in the future, even printed so much as mine, or a family members name, let alone a picture, then he would go to prison and they would throw away the key (he had recently done an exposé on the judiciary), and even as he sat at his desk reading it I was in Lady S (the flying one) hot footing it to England, so fast that I thought that the Avon was running on fumes as I came into land, and was then, still in my immersion suit, whisked quickly away by the fastest helicopter available to Marks bedside. As I had charged through the skies, high above the Bay of Biscay I had devised a plan, but as I sat there by his bedside, it metaphorically went out of the window. He had required over thirty stitches, and the surgeons reckoned that even with cosmetic surgery he would still be scarred for the rest of his life. He was permanently blind in one eye, and even with further operations he would only ever have partial sight in the other.

The war had now escalated.

Less than a week later, as he sat quietly at home Mr Morris received, via the hand of a very nondescript courier, a very derisory offer for his newspaper group, a bankers draft for the said amount, and a yellow folder. In it was material that would not only ensure that he would go to prison for a long time, but that he would also be spending it in solitary confinement – for his own safety. On the front of folder was a post-it written in my own hand promising him that if he told absolutely no one of our deal, then I would not divulge its contents to anyone; and as anyone that knows me knows, I never break a promise; although I didn't mention anything about the red folder. An hour later, after he had left his home (and his wife) for the last time, transferred the bankers draft into an off shore account and went off to find an aeroplane heading in the general direction of the Bahamas, I was stood in front of the Comets Head Office, after first handing an envelope containing the red file to another nondescript courier. This one was addressed to a senior member of Her Majesties Constabulary, who had been anonymously tipped off to expect it, and after removing the surgical rubber gloves that I had been wearing I entered the grandiose portals, wondering if Mr Morris would actually make the aircraft.

First off the Security Guards recognised me and made tracks to stop me, but a solicitor bearing documents proving that I was now their boss got to them first, and they quickly joined in the procession behind me, they didn't want to miss a second of the hoped for 'ensuing carnage.'I had chosen the timing of my arrival to perfection, Ms Wonting and her editorial team were putting the final touches to that evening's edition as I walked in. My tame solicitor, Lord 'something or other', who was running point for me handed out more copies of the document, and I slowly worked down a list of names that I had in my hand, taking great pleasure in firing each one of them on the spot, and informing them that if I had anything to do with it then their careers in journalism were over – permanently, but there were two other persons in the room that were not on my list, but I calculated that any unfair dismissal claim in the future would be more than worth it, just for the short term gratification that I would gain from firing them as well, so I did. One editor stood and decided that he wanted to argue the toss with me, but David carelessly let his jacket fall open, and that put an end to any dissent. Each person was then searched for any Comet property, mobile phones, files, computers, safe keys, pencils, dust etc, and then escorted out of the building, then I was off, I was on a roll and wanted to get to the remainder of the list before word got out. I entered the staff reporters/photographers office, and two of the gentlemen took one look at me and tried to bolt for it, but David and a couple of the Colonels finest persuaded them otherwise, and then after I repeated my jovial standard greeting to both of them, plus a few others in the room for good measure, David took both of them to one side.

'If they knew what was good for them they would quickly find a rock and crawl under it, never to feel the sun's rays again, before the boys in blue arrived'. Unfortunately, in their haste to find a rock, they both fell down the stairs; and were arrested in the ambulance Mark idolised David, and the feeling was reciprocated.

After that I had two further small jobs to do, first I went back downstairs to the entrance hall, and taped a sheet of A4 paper containing a brief statement to one of the glass doors. Basically it said that even though the vast majority of employees of the Comet were not involved in the decision making process, they all willingly worked for the paper (I had nearly put _new_ spaper) so as of this moment the Comet, and all of its subsidiaries were defunct, and all of their employees made redundant, and then I stepped outside for a press conference.

As I had been enjoying myself inside, a few selected TV news departments and newspaper editors had been notified that I would be making a brief statement that might be of interest, in a few minutes time, and a surprisingly large number of their staff, with cameras and notebooks at the ready were there to greet me, and surprise, surprise, in the front row stood Sandra, live on air, we may no longer be an 'item' but we were still friends. As I watched the 'late' employees starting to stream out of the offices (bad news always travels fast), the security staff confiscated any files, discs or laptop that made their way to the doors (I let them keep the pencils and dust), I knew that this scene was being repeated at the remainder of the Comets subsidiaries, the Security Guards there being ably assisted/watched over by yet more of the Colonel's finest. I then made a brief statement to the gathered throng, briefly explaining the reasoning behind my actions. Even though I had sated some of my anger, I was still raging inside, so I did not mince my words, and although I had said at the start that there would be no questions on completion of the statement, a Daily Mirror reporter just had to push his luck, ' **and Mr Michaels what would happen if another news group did a similar thing** ' he shouted.

There was a deadly hush as I turned and looked him in the eye, and calmly said 'Then I will just have to dig a little deeper into my petty cash'. Why hadn't Sandra asked me that question? She already knew the answer.

After the statement I was driven back to the hospital, but as I walked into its entrance I felt a very strange sensation course through my body, and quickly glancing around I found out the answer, lo and behold there wasn't a paparazzi in sight.

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Chapter 23

I stayed with Robin and Emma for a further week, but finally I got the message, they were big children now and were perfectly capable of looking after their son. That wasn't quite how they put it, they just leapt into an air ambulance with Mark and disappeared off to Russia, apparently that was where the World's most skilled eye surgeon had his practice (it always worries me that they call it a practice – never a perfect). He had flown in a few days earlier and examined Mark, and then informed them that he was willing to operate, but there was only a seventy percent chance of Mark regaining 'reasonable' sight in his least damaged eye, but that was a good enough percentage for Robin and Emma, up until then it had been one hundred percent of 'almost nothing'.

After they departed for Moscow I paid Switzerland a visit (by the way I'd had my fingers crossed when I said they left me behind, I just wanted to go flying again), there was a gentleman there that had a Fieseler Storch, and he was willing to let me have a go in it. I had flown a Storch the day before I'd had my first 'up close and personal' meeting with the Hunter FGA 11 in America, but although it had been a pleasant enough experience, at that stage of my life I had wanted something that would go faster than my car, but that was not now a problem, and I had purloined Leutnant Angern's Storch as my future personal runabout. I had to have something more than just a watch and a pair of sunglasses to show for all the money that I was shelling out. The only aircraft to fly operationally from that patch of desert didn't even make it to El Campo, it, along with a spare Argus AS10 C engine that was sat in the store room, perfectly preserved, was flown directly to Duckford Aerodrome and Michael's engineers started on it with a vengeance. The new engine was successfully bench tested three days later, so it was back into storage for the luckless motor, and the original (one owner - low mileage) one refitted, after its own refurbishment. Although it did have to spend most of its time at Duckford sitting to one side watching as the engineers stripped and re-skinned the fabric covering of the aircraft, renew the seals in the undercarriage shock absorbers, replace the control cables, plus tidy up few other bits and pieces, although despite wanting to keep the aircraft as close to original as possible I sanctioned a new electrics system, along with a modern day aircraft battery, and allowed them to gut the radio. They carefully installed a modern radio inside its empty case and then hinged the original front panel, complete with its original switches, so that I could see the LED display and get to the push buttons when I wanted to go flying. The refurbished aircraft would then be finished in its original desert camouflage, and Michael promised faithfully to have it ready before Easter.

My Swiss tutor left me to get on with it after our first flight, and now that I was serious about the Fieseler it seemed to me that I didn't fly it, we flew as one. It was a wonderful experience which I hadn't felt before, even when flying a Hunter. I spent four days flying it around his little airstrip, and the Swiss countryside; it would lift off in 45 meters (150 feet), fly safely at 50 Km/H (32 mph), with a top speed of 175 Km/H (109 mph), and land within 18 meters (60 feet) although that was purely academic, I soon got used to, in any sort of head-wind, taking off and landing almost vertically, and a couple of time my tutor swore that I landed backwards. If I hadn't been getting my own machine very soon I would have defiantly made him an offer that he couldn't refuse.

My Storch finally arrived, sat on its very own transport trailer, with its wings folded back, in the back of a Hercules; and it looked lost in the huge interior. Michael's team had exceeded all expectations and completed the restoration in record time, due in no small part to it being in mint condition to start with, and over the next week we became 'as one', but poor Chalkie had to get the paint pot out and re-designate various parts of the taxi-track as runways, as it took me a lifetime to taxi to the main runways, only to be airborne in seconds.

After a flying visit to check up on Mark, Easter was upon us and by Good Friday all the aircraft were in the hangar, in exactly the same positions that they had been in the desert, and all the artefacts (well almost all) were out of their boxes - why?, because I was going to have some very special visitors mańana. Using the records that we had found, Marcus and Maria, with the help of many ex-Luftwaffe Societies and Charities, contacted virtually all of the direct decedents of the Officers and men based in the desert, plus several from the tanker convoy. This in itself had been a delicate exercise as none of them knew for certain that they were dead, they were all just 'missing in action'. The letters that they sent out explained that this weekend would be for them to see what their relatives had flown or worked on, pay their respects, and to receive a few mementos to help them remember them in the future. Those that couldn't make it would receive their mementos via an ex-servicemen's organisation.

Almost a hundred and fifty relatives arrived by Airbus the next morning, and spent the rest of the day with the aircraft and artefacts. There were voluntary organisations on hand to help if any of them had any problems, but most seemed to come to terms with their grief in their own way. Oberstleutnant von Beneckendorf's wife (now in her early nineties) sat at his desk all afternoon reading his diary, clasping the rosewood box that held the going away present that she had given him as she had bid him farewell that last time (it was a fountain pen); and Leutnant Angern's son, who had just worked out that he had been born whilst his father was actually airborne on his last mission, talked me into taking him up for a flight in his father's aircraft. It turned out that he had flown Phantoms in the post war Luftwaffe and he cried like a baby throughout the entire flight. On landing he thanked me, and then returned to his hard bitten self. That evening I lay on a grand dinner in Mi Casa, where everyone seemed to want to give a speech, and then it was off to bed, as we all had an early start the next day. The majority of my guests slept on the top floor of Mi Casa, although a surprising number, and not only the younger ones, wanted to sleep on their relative's camp beds alongside the aircraft.

The next morning, after breakfast and hangover remedies, my guests and I were airborne again, and were flown to a Royal Moroccan Air Force Special Forces Base close to the hangar, and then were transferred by their Chinook helicopters to the site itself. They spent a little time walking around the now empty hangar, and then re-embarked in the helicopters, which then transported them to the site of their relative's untimely demise.

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As soon as it became clear that we had discovered the exact location of their relative's remains, I had personally rung the German Ambassador in Rabat with the information, and within a very short time the area around the remains of the trucks and tankers was roped off and became an official war graves cemetary, and once the international media got hold of the story an unidentified American gentleman anonymously came forward and made ample provision for its construction and upkeep, the consensus of opinion in the press being that the benefactor was a German national that had emigrated to America after the War.

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Although the cemetery was not yet fully completed a German Military Chaplain officiated over its dedication and then a full military funeral ceremony was performed, and as the guard of honour, made up of serving Luftwaffe personnel fired off the volley shots, a flight of Luftwaffe Eurofighter Typhoon's flew above in the 'missing man formation', and each one of my guests knew that their relatives would never again be forgotten.

As they all stood lost in their own thoughts David handed me a monocular that he always carried, and indicated to a sand dune a little way away. On top of it stood a silent helicopter, I had presumed that it was full of members of the press, but as it came into focus I made out an elderly gentleman sat slumped in a wheelchair, accompanied only by two uniformed nurses. Initially I was puzzled at who it could be, until I looked closer, the figure was wearing, no, was draped in an old US naval uniform jacket. On its sleeves were two and a half faded gold stripes, and on his chest he had a pair of pilot's wings, although it was now devoid of medals. I didn't have to be the 'Brain of Britain' to work out that it was in all probability Lieutenant Commander Dabrowski USN (Retired), and that the benefactor of the cemetery was of Polish, not German extraction, but I made no tracks to climb the dune; I thought it was best to let him come to terms with his demons in his own way.

That evening, back at El Campo, I laid on a buffet dinner for my guests, but most of them just stood quietly in small groups, hardly touching the food, cementing friendship's that had now been formed out of grief, and I knew that pilgrimages were being planned for the future, and then next morning it was time for me to say goodbye to my guests, but not before they said a final farewell to the aircraft, although Leutnant Angern's son and I had gone for a clandestine early morning spin. I flew the Storch to a desolate part of the airfield and swopped seats with him, he had more than enough experience to fly his father's tiny aircraft, and fortunately this time there were no tears.

Just before they departed I presented each set of relatives with a box, inside of which were their relative's military records, any personal items that we had come across, and a 37 mm anti-tank cannon shell. They were all families of military personnel so as I had struggled to think of a fitting memento of their visit I remembered that the one thing that I had a supply of was de-activated anti-tank cannon shells from the Stuka's and Fw190's, so after all the brass cases had been polished to perfection, each member of that ill-fated unit had one of them mounted on a varnished wooden plinth; and their rank, name, service number and date of birth (dash) 20th November 1942 was etched into a brass plate and then attached to it.

Finally, just as everyone was making their way to board the Airbus Frau von Beneckendorf stopped, turned and raised herself out of her chair, and with the rest of my guests stood behind her she beckoned me to her. As I approached her one of her grandchildren handed her something and then she gave me a hug and a kiss and thanked me again on behalf of everyone, and then pressed a small rosewood box into my hand. I didn't need to shake it to know that there was a fountain pen inside, and she whispered 'a little something for you to remember us both by'; and then she was whisked up the steps and away. I hope Maria wouldn't be too upset if it cluttered up my desk. It wasn't as though this was the last time that they would hear from me though, I had arranged for a regular newsletter to be sent to each of them, keeping them all up to date with the restorations, and which museums would be receiving what memorabilia, it would keep my Editor-in-Chief (AKA Marcus) out of trouble for a long while to come.

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Chapter 24

The following morning I stood in front of the assembled Engineers and volunteers and presented Aaron, Michael, David, Pierre, Topsy and Marcus with their sunglasses and chronometers, now ticking silently away. They had been my 'prime movers' in this project, and then after pronouncing that the restoration was now 'well and truly started' I ceremonially pulled the chocks from under the wheels of the first aircraft destined for the waiting production line, although as I looked at the applauding Engineers and volunteers I wondered what 'small' memento they would be leaving with, then I remembered that I had an abundance of 20mm cannon shells from the 190's, problem solved.

As I wandered around the gathered throng I managed to have a few surreptitious words with most of my 'A' Team, who all nodded in agreement, although yet again Teddy was conspicuous by his absence, anybody that dared to mention anything to do with the vintage aircraft to him were on a racing certainty that he would be in a foul mood for the rest of the day, he didn't like to play second fiddle to anyone, or anything, so at precisely eleven o'clock I sat at the conference table, and around me were gathered my complete 'A' Team for its regular monthly meeting, and almost to a person in total agreement with item number 1 on the agenda. Before we started I asked Maria if she would ask Marcus, who as usual was minding the office whilst these sorts of meetings were taking place, to bring in a package that was sat on my desk, and a few moments later he entered and handed it to me, and then turned to leave.

'Marcus' I said 'please wait a moment' and indicating a vacant chair I said 'take a seat'.

Slightly bemused he sat down, but looked forward to the opportunity of watching the 'powers that be' in their deliberations.

'Item one on the agenda' I started, 'the growing problem that members of this team are having in coping with the management of their increasing staffing levels within their departments'. 'All those in favour of my solution please raise their hand' and all but one member raised their hand, but poor old Teddy didn't have clue what was going on so he hesitated, 'those against', but Teddy sensibly decided to play the 'abstention card' and so I said 'passed'.

A confused Marcus looked on, surly it was normally a more democratic process than this?, and then became even more confused when I removed something from the package that he had just brought in, and slid it over to him. He looked down at it and started to cry, I really, really was going to have to do something about my people skills. In front of him lay a name plaque with MARCUS BRANNING, DIRECTOR OF HUMAN RESOURCES (and disaster control). Maria handed him a box of tissues (she had come prepared for this eventuality) and after he had collected his composure I asked him, 'well, do you accept?'

He gave me a nod, 'right, Item two, grockles'; although Teddy interrupted me before I could continue, he wasn't a happy little bunny.

'Why wasn't I aware of this' he stormed.

'Oh did I miss you, as it was a 'compulsory request' that you all attend the ceremony this morning, I thought that I had gott'n round to everyone there', I innocently said.

'I left early' he sulkily said.

'Ah well - never mind, I'm sure you agree, right, item two – grockles'.

What is a grockle (AKA rubbernecker) you may ask; it's Cornish for holidaymaker or visitor? Carlos, a member of the 'B' Team had raised the point that tourists were now turning up at the gate almost hourly asking if they could come in and have a look around El Campo, sometimes by the bus load, it was starting to become a right royal PIA (pain in aris), so Caroline, who was Chairing that meeting promised to pass it upwards.

Teddy of course was anti the idea of letting anyone in, he could just visualise a rubbernecker disappearing down the intake of one of his precious Hunters. David was a tad worried that a terrorist would assassinate me, and Caroline thought it would be a wonderful idea, the flowers are so pretty in the summer, and then Marcus made his first contribution in his new capacity, hoping that it wouldn't be his last.

'How about a 15inch gauge miniature railway', he said.

There was complete and utter silence.

'Have I made a mistake?' I thought.

But he bravely persevered, apparently he (unbelievably) had a peaked cap, oil can and sweat rag! He was a qualified miniature railway engine driver. His father was an avid enthusiast and he had been weaned on miniature steam engines. Apparently the main difference between miniature railways and narrow gauge railways is that the engines are replicas of full sized ones; it has nothing at all to do with the size of the track (that's news to me, I always thought that size was important), and the locomotives could have 'live' steam, diesel engines, petrol engines, or electric motors propelling them.

'Does that mean that there is 'dead' steam running about out there?' I innocently asked.

'Yes' he innocently said – 'but you call it water', this is a side of Marcus I never dreamt existed, and after ten minutes my eyes started to glaze over as he recited fact after fact, but I started to warm to his suggestion, so 'all those in favour of Marcus carrying out a feasibility study raise their hand' and all but one person raised a hand.

'Carried' I said, I wasn't remotely interested if Teddy wanted to vote against the idea or just abstain, whoever said this was a democracy anyway?

After the meeting concluded it was a celebratory cup of tea all round (Marcus was teetotal) and then I went off to the greenhouse for a spot of lunch, wondering as I went, if I could get a sweaty cloth?

Now any sane person would think that I had enough to keep myself busy, what with my boats and planes and golf course and......., but no, now I was contemplating getting into trains as well. Marcus and his dad quickly put a presentation together and a month after his inaugural speech - ' _how about a 15inch gauge miniature railway?'_ (I didn't say that it was a long speech) he had a tent erected on my front lawn (when you live on an airfield, you have an awfully large front lawn), and I sat, along with my 'A', 'B', 'C' and any other team that could squeeze in, waiting for him to start. Why couldn't we hold the presentation in the conference room or cinema, because of the 'backdrop', it was a one third scale 4-6-2 steam locomotive, and it was gi-normous; and Marcus wanted to fire it up, but fortunately his father clipped him round the ear, and that put a stop to that idea. Maybe Marcus's hands wanted to grab hold of a vintage grease nipple, but his presentational skills were definitely twenty-first century, and we were quickly in the cab of the Lady S (a 4-6-2 locomotive similar to the one sat in front of us, that is) and about to set off along the fifteen inch (381 mm) gauge track. We departed from the main station (at the site of the now redundant temporary main gate, which was used during the renovations when I had first moved in (Carlos had apparently suggested that), and were soon passing the main gate, fortunately there were level crossings, complete with gates, when we crossed the roads (Thomas insisted on them), and made our way towards the front of Mi Casa (Mrs Blake suggested that – privacy for me and my guests 'out back'), just in front of the control tower (Chalkies idea, although I would lose two helicopter spots – but who really needs five anyway!), and how about a station there for me and my guests (that was me). We steamed past the back of the hangars and the engine shed (AKA C Hangar), and around the airfield perimeter, although there would be signals situated at the approaches to the runways (the CAA, FAA and every other alphabet organisation would insist on that). When we approached the coast we could have gotten out and played on the amusements, or had a picnic or BBQ, (Marcel suggested that) or gone for a walk along the cliff tops (somebody suggested that it might have been Charlie that suggested that) , but no, we carried on behind X, Y, and Z hangars (and Teddy actually suggested a station there that his people could use when they needed to go and eat in the greenhouse, or go home – ahhh is he mellowing – no, they could keep their cars outside the main gate and so keep off his taxiways). As we passed high above the marina there was another station – leading to a funicular railway going down the cliff into it (Carol's idea), and then it was back into the main station, unless we first stopped off at yet another station, transferred onto an electric train (Marcus reckoned that it would be quieter and cleaner than steam) (WHAT - nobody had mentioned 'noisy' or 'dirty' steam to me), and after crossing the runway it would climb up onto an elevated track, hopefully away from too many flying golf balls, and loop around the golf course (Paul hated that). David was partially placated when it was mentioned that most of the track would be fenced in, and I finally won him over when I said that he could have as many new CCTV cameras as he wanted, covering the whole track, and all fitted with motion detectors, although I did draw the line at electrifying the fences, and patrolling dogs, but it turned out that Chalkie was the easiest one of all to please, I just promised him a larger chicken coop (apparently they are 'modulated', so it is a relatively easy operation), and a full time assistant signalman, and Beryl was already busy pricking out her Fuchsia's. A large car park could be constructed on land that I already owned below the old gate (Consultants suggested that) and visitors would be lifted up to the entrance in a wheelchair friendly cable car (Inma suggested that). Visitors would only pay an entrance charge that covered the railways running costs (Itza suggested that - if I didn't charge anything {I suggested that} then the queues would be twice around the Costa Blanca, and if I tried to make a profit on the whole shebang then only people richer than myself could afford to come). Decisions, decisions, decisions, but at the end of the presentation I said 'OK Marcus – sounds good to me, but only if I can have an oily cap', and I was going to have to add 'Station Master' to his new job description.

~~~~

Chapter 25

As spring finally sprung towards summer I was feeling pretty good with myself. The restoration works on the aircraft were going well, and Michael was ever dropping hints about a permanent 'Spanish subsidiary', wishful thinking; or maybe not, and at every opportunity I was up in the air in the Storch, it was definitely a love affair made in heaven. I would fly it around the airfield and surrounding area on the slightest pretext and this morning was no exception, and thereby came my downfall, and everything from then on was to change.

After an early start, my late starts were now becoming a thing of the past, I spent half an hour at my desk, of course wearing my flying overalls, and then it was into my golf buggy (green with gold stripes – and nicknamed Lady S) and down to 'A' hangar. A cheery Fred helped me push the Storch out (it was her turn to watch out for 'station flight' – visiting aircraft) and I climbed in, and as soon as the P's and T's were right I blipped the throttle and was airborne. I 'air taxied' a few feet above the taxi way, giving Topsy a heart attack as I overtook him, as he made his way to work, although I did resist the temptation of bouncing my port wheel off his roof, that would teach him not to forget his rear view mirror, then I throttled back and ground taxied up to Zulu hangar. After checking on the progress of the first Stuka coming along the production line I walked over to Lady S (the jet one) and clambered in, and once settled in, and the ground crew had arrived, I flashed her up and was airborne in next to no time. After spending half an hour exercising my heart in the clouds, and extending my life expectancy by another thirty years in the process I returned her to the line, switched back into the Storch and was off again. The architects designing the railway line had suggested that a small station be constructed at my solar panel/wind farm, giving the rubbernecks the chance to check out some of my green credentials, and then if they fancied a bit of a walk, they could walk to the picnic area, under David's watchful eye(s) of course. After setting down on the taxi track I disembarked and had a walk round, it looked perfect, I was really getting into this miniature railway idea, then it was back to the Storch, oops I had a queue, there were four Hunters waiting to get past so I cheerfully waved at them and was quickly out of their way. As I 'air' taxied along I came across a red light, it was unsafe to cross the runway so I quickly set down and came to a stop a couple of meters from the light, just in time to see the clipper (a regular bi-weekly service run by a charter company between El Campo and London City Airport) overfly the runway, the Captain was obviously taking advantage of no landing fees to give his co-pilot a few practice 'circuit and bumps'. Once the lights changed back to green I was off again into the air, and as I approached 'A' hangar I edged out over the empty golf course slightly, so that I could line up with the entrance to the hangar. When I had departed I had noticed that the hanger was as usual empty, the rest of my fleet were now in 'B' hangar, so I decided to save Fred some 'leg work'. Normally I would land on my 'little' runway on the taxi track, and then turn and taxi up the slightly inclined apron of the hangar, and shut down just before I reached the doors - but gradually I started to improve on this, and now if the wind was right and the hangar empty I would swing over the golf course, line myself up with the hangar and actually land on the apron (and for the last few times I had switched the engine off as I touched down and coasted right into the hangar). I would then slow down to a walking pace and trundle to a stop by the Storchs bay, smart or what! This time I left the touch down on the apron a slight bit too late and the aircraft's nose was actually in the hangar before I switched the engine off, no problem though, I was still at walking pace before I had gone half way down the hangar, and as I came to the bay I still had a little umpf left so I trod on the starboard brake and swung her round, coming to a stop with her tail pointing at her bay, double smart or what. As I climbed down Fred appeared, not her usual cheerful self though (perhaps she was feeling peckish), and we pushed the Storch back, and once the chocks were in I was into my golf buggy and back up to Mi Casa, just in time for a shower and change of clothes before lunch, now that is what I call a productive morning.

As I entered the greenhouse there was not the usual chatter, perhaps Wigan had won the cup or something, and after a quick visit to the salad bar I found an empty table and sat down, perhaps I wouldn't put the fear of Christ up some unfortunate newbie today, and then, just as I was finishing my starter, a few tables away I saw Topsy slam his knife and folk down, give a loud growl, stand up and come marching my way, his face like thunder. He stopped in front of me, opened his mouth to say something, took a look around, and changed his mind. He spun around, and over his shoulder he barked 'FOLLOW ME, NOW'. As there was nobody else nearby that he could possibly be talking to, I got up and followed him. No one moved a muscle as he marched outside, with me trailing bemused behind. Outside he commandeered a buggy; all but Lady S were fair game for anyone wanting to move around the area, and nodded for me to get in, and we shot off to 'A' Hangar. He came to a halt at the doors, disembarked, stormed into the hangar and came to a halt about two meters inside. I presumed that he wanted me to follow him, so I slowly disembarked and went and stood beside him, very cosy I thought, and then I looked down at what he was staring at, a skid mark, with another one to one side of it. Oops, I had actually touched down inside the hanger, but what was his problem, so I went on the attack, 'so, I make one little mistake, what's the big deal', and then he reamed me a new rectal orifice.

  1. The first mistake that I had made this morning was waking up, I hadn't bothered to tell anyone that I wanted to go flying; everyone had to just assume that I was.

  2. Apparently helping to push the Storch out wasn't too bad, although I hadn't checked with Fred that it was serviceable, I 'as usual' just assumed that it was.

  3. When I had 'air' taxied away I hadn't bothered to tell anyone where I was going, again everyone had to guess, 'god, you act as though you own the place' he said in exasperation.

' _I do' I thought, but let it slide._

  4. Then he got to the car bit, I just knew that he would, 'can't you take a joke' I said.

'No, please tell me the difference between you putting your wheel a foot in front of my windscreen for a bit of fun, and an aircraft crashing onto my bonnet for real, because at that moment in time my heart certainly couldn't tell.

I grudgingly gave him that point.

  5. 'Then you FLY down a line of parked aircraft, not a Marshaller in sight, frightening half a dozen mechanics that had their heads inside their aircraft'

(That's a lie – there were only four).

  6. 'Then you land and park your aircraft outside a hangar, without chocks in, assuming that no big jet engine is going to start up and blow it away'.

I was starting not to like the direction this one sided conversation was going in.

  7. 'Then, leaving it there you climb into the Lady S, again assuming that she is serviceable and has the right amount of fuel in it' (I **had** checked the gauges),

  8. 'And then you charge off down the taxi track while the rest of the pilots are having the need to be careful with their brake pads continually drummed into them'.

I was slowly getting the idea.

  9. 'On landing you assume that I can read your mind about the serviceability of the Lady S, and then you are off in that 'bloody' Storch again, (actual word censored) not bothering to thank the mechanics that had moved it before it could be blown over the top of the hangar, and again letting everyone guess where you were going'.

' _Before you say anything about me parking on the taxi track, I'm sorry; I should have taxied off of it'._

  10. 'That would have been even worse' he shouted. 'Four Hunters taxiing past would have certainly blown it over the fence.

  11. 'Then there is the clipper driver seeing an aircraft about to fly into the side of him as he was about to touch down, he didn't have time to think oh, it's a Fieseler Storch, it can land on a sixpence (he obviously wasn't into decimalisation either), he just saw an aircraft about to collide with him. It took Chalkie half an hour to talk him back down.

  12. 'And then you go flying off over the golf course, everyone expecting you to be shot down by a 43mm golf ball at any time'.

  13. 'THEN the piece de résistance, you actually fly into the hangar, with everyone outside waiting for the crash, and my Fred, inside, waiting to die. She was sat at the end of the hangar, servicing the ground equipment and she looked up just in time to see the Storch, propeller turning, engine noise reverberating around the hangar, and daylight below the wheels, **flying** towards her - _INSIDE THE 'EFFIN HANGAR_ , please don't tell me that you expected her to get out the pilots notes and ascertain it's landing distance'.

The wind then seemed to go out of his sails slightly, but he still continued.

  14. 'You may be one of the most naturally gifted pilots that I have ever come across, and what you can do with that ******* Storch will most likely go down in history, BUT, if your brakes had failed, or Fred had just finished driving the deck scrubber around the hangar floor, you, the Storch and my Fred would have had to have been scraped off the end wall, and whilst a few of us might actually have missed you, most other people at El Campo would have reached for the 'situations vacant', as this place would be a ghost town within a week'. 'You seem to fail to understand the simple fact that where there is power, then there is responsibility', and then he was out of the hangar, into the trolley and back off to finish his dinner.

I didn't think it was prudent to ask him for a lift.

I walked to the hangar door and sat on a block of concrete that supported something or other, and stared out over the golf course, and started to have a 'reality check'. Everything he had said was of course true, although I had seen it all from a different perspective. Admittedly I did fly around as though I owned the place, as I actually did, but unfortunately everyone else had to obey the rules, or find another job. I blithely went around assuming that everyone was my friend, chuckling admiringly at my antics, and never realising that perhaps they didn't even like me, just the money that I put in their bank accounts every month, and in my mind I went through my list of staff/employees/friends, and it didn't make easy thinking.

The first one to join me had been Maria, if I had met her in different circumstances I doubted if she would have even noticed me, her I.Q. was about three times that of mine, and then there was David. He was through and through a military man, although to give him his due he was always professional, and Caroline I think could easily have been friends with Sheila, although I think Charlie and I could have been mates down the pub. Vicente always has been Vicente, and always will be, although I think that I would have crossed over the road to avoid Teddy. In fact the only ones that I seemed to be totally relaxed with were Topsy and Chalkie, and I seemed to have blown them both away. It was time for me to come to terms with the fact that El Campo wasn't a democracy, it was a totalitarian regime, with me as its dictator, whether I liked it or not. It really couldn't be anything else, or anarchy would rule, and then it slowly dawned on me about all my antics in the Storch, I had not been showing off to anyone else, I had been showing off to myself. Letting my own insecurities not only put myself into harm's way, but endangering other people in the process, and I finally reached a conclusion, perhaps the same one that Sasha's crowd had come to all those centuries ago, with the benefits came responsibility, so I climbed down from that friendly concrete block (at least it hadn't shouted at me) and went and sat next to Topsy. He must have realised that I was missing when he got back to the greenhouse and come back to collect me (he had been patiently waiting there for an age, whilst I was churning everything around in my brain).

'Where to' he asked 'front door or greenhouse?'

'Greenhouse' I said. He gave an approving nod and we drove off, I wonder if he knew what decision I had come to.

As I entered the side door that I had exited half an hour earlier, I doubted if anyone in the dining room had moved a muscle, they were still sitting there, cutlery poised, frozen in time, and letting their lunches get cold. I quickly walked up to Fred, who tried to politely stand up, but I signalled her to keep seated, and then apologised to her from the bottom of my heart, and everyone else in the room knew that it wasn't just her that I was apologising to, it was to everyone, and then I turned to walk out with as much dignity as I could muster, although I didn't get very far, I glanced up at the mezzanine and noticed that not one person up there was looking at me.

''A' team meeting in the cinema in ten minutes', I said quietly, and walked out.

Five minutes later I was stood in front of them, and I was still seething, so I read them the riot act, although hopefully most of them knew that it was really only meant for the consumption of one man, but the rest could still remain and take in the fact that things had just changed around El Campo. What it boiled down to was that these people were paid top dollar to protect me, feed me and cater to my every whim, but it had been someone halfway down the food chain that had finally had the spherical's to grab me by the throat and try and protect me from myself. He hadn't put his job security before his mechanics safety. As I slowly lost steam I realised that I may be heading for a pile of resignation letters so I gave two examples of how thing would be from now on, and the first one up was David. Every time that I wanted to do something stupid he would forcibly point out the error of my ways, but if I decided to ignore his advice anyway he would put plan 'B' into operation, and make the best of a bad job, at the end of the day I was still his employer. The next one up was Carole; now that got her attention, when we were approaching the pirates off Somalia she had asked me to go with her into her sea cabin, at the time I thought that her timing was a bit out, but what she wanted me to do was go below to comparative safety, along with the passengers and all non-essential crew, put on half a dozen flak and life jackets and wait for the bullets to stop flying. I had quickly told her that I appreciated her concern but I was not asking any member of her/my crew to face something dangerous whilst I was cowering below. The buck stopped with me, so I would listen to everyone's advice, but when the time came it would be me, and me alone that would take the decision to press the button, and face the consequences afterwards. As I was now a Dictator I didn't take any questions, I just left them to their thoughts and made my way to my bedroom.

As I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, I wondered 'what next', and Sam answered that, she took the 'blue gel thing' out of my man fridge and placed it over my eyes, and slowly I started to relax, and as it started to warm up she removed it and massaged my eyes, and then after rolling me over, my shoulders; finishing off with reflexology on my feet. Thank god I hadn't gone for the male of the species, she was worth every penny that I was paying her (I wasn't into decimalisation either), and Marcus was a very lucky chap. After I had been pummelled into submission I lay quietly there for a few minutes, and then heard Sam moving about, a sure sign that it was time to move, and after another shower and change of clothes I looked quizzically at her.

'Perhaps a visit to your office might be in order' she suggested, and left it at that.

On my desk were four resignation envelopes, Maria had fortunately fended off the others, and the first one was from Teddy. 'Of course it was my fault - but he was in-charge 'air-side' so the buck stopped with him'. Very heroic, I thought, but he just didn't understand that he was not the Station Commander any more, he didn't make the rules now, I did, and I sat there for a few minutes twirling von Beneckendorf's fountain pen in my fingers, trying to put something appropriate onto paper, but finally I gave up and put my new maxim of 'why keep a dog, and bark yourself' into force. I pressed the buzzer and Maria entered carrying a yellow folder (something for me to sign), placed it in front of me, and said 'something I prepared earlier - Sir', with just a hint of a forced humour. I opened it and of course it was my letter to Teddy accepting his resignation, thanking him for all ' _his sterling work on my behalf'_ and wishing him well in the future, perhaps not quite how I would have put it - but close enough, so I signed it. 'Is he outside?' I asked, dreading the answer.

'No Sir, he is on the Clipper', and as if on cue I heard it lifting off the runway on its way back to London, and absent mindedly wondered how many of the others were on board it. I picked up the second letter and of course it was from David. I looked up at Maria and asked 'is David outside?'

'Yes sir, shall I send him in?' I had a feeling that all my quaint little nicknames were now a thing of the past. The last time I had heard so many 'sirs' in one conversation it had ended with the Gentleman's Barber from Brighton asking me if 'I would like anything for the week-end, sir?', when I said 'a crate of Guinness' he looked rather sad, and it took me less than two minutes to sort David out; I was not going let him go, even if he tried to kung Fu me, so I tore up his letter, although he did pause before he left my office, I could see that he had something else on his mind. 'Yes David, what is it?'

'The range, Sir, it's alright for you to blaze away in the middle of the night with a Uzi if you cannot sleep, but really there should always be at least two people there at any one time, and I can always tell when you cannot sleep, my morning shift are dog tired'.

The bachelor quarters were above the indoor range and it appeared that the sound proofing left a lot to be desired. I paused for a few seconds then reached into my pocket and removed a small bunch of keys, detached one, and handed it to him. 'If I need to go into the weapons locker in the future, I am sure that you will be the first to offer to keep me company'. The next letter was from Chalkie, 'Is Chalkie there Maria?' I said into the intercom, and almost instantaneously he came in and stood in front of me. I looked at his letter, and then up at him, 'Group Captain Heslop has offered his resignation, and I have accepted it' do you still want to do this?'

A smile came on his face and he shook his head, 'If it's OK with you then I might just hang around for a bit longer, and perhaps we can devise a system of Morse code on your 'P to T' (press to transmit) if you don't want to actually talk to me'. Then he was off, but not very far, he stuck his head back around the door and said 'I wonder, has anyone ever landed a Storch on a moving miniature train?' then he was off, whistling tunelessly, I wonder if his singing was any better!

The last one in was Topsy, and he sheepishly entered my domain, but I was not at my desk, I was sat in one of my La-Z-Boy's, and indicated for him to sit in the other, and on the coffee table in front of us lay the torn up shreds of his letter. 'If you think that you can escape that easily then you have another think coming', and then I went on to thank him for standing up to me before I killed myself, or even worse, killed or injured someone else. We then had a coffee and chatted for a while about 'something and nothing' until I finally plucked up enough courage to say what I wanted to say, 'about friends and employees, I hope you realise that I look on you as a friend, possibly my only real friend at El Campo (well perhaps Chalkie as well, he always lets me win at uckers), and as a friend I have to tell you that you are wasted as 'king of the crap' (I'm not as blunt as him), now that Teddy has gone there will be changes made, and I definitely want you higher up the food chain'.

He lounged there for a moment longer, then gave a resigned sigh, stood up, and as he headed towards the door he said 'OK Andy, but only if you let me win at uckers tonight?'

'You are joking' I shouted at his back 'I don't like anyone well enough to do that'.

As I settled back into the chair I thought that that was more than enough for one day, but no, there was a tap on the door (funny place to keep a tap), and in came Beryl, and confusion racked my brain again. I had presumed that she was sat beside Teddy on the clipper – wrong, it turned out that I had done something terrible when I had offered her the position of Horticultural Manager, she found out that she had an identity all of her own.

On leaving Uni she had met Flight Lieutenant Heslop RAF, and a little while later became 'Flt Lt Heslop's wife'. Then as he progressed, she became 'Squadron Leader, then Wing Commander and finally Group Captain Heslop's wife' although with the last one came the title 'the Station Commanders wife' as well. When he retired he still hung onto his title so she was still 'the wife of Group Captain Heslop RAF (Retired) until that fateful day when I had offered her the job. To me it had just been a means to an end, but apparently to her it had been a life changing moment. The first thing that Maria had done was to arrange to have some business cards printed off for her, _Beryl Heslop – Horticultural Manager,_ and there was no mention of Teddy anywhere, and she just loved it, so after my full, frank and meaningful chat with them (him), hubby had come out and told her to 'go and pack whilst I write out our resignations, we are out of this dump'.

Her answer had been a categorical, 'go pack yourself, I'm going nowhere' (I think she said 'pack'). She had wanted to stand up to him for years, but had never before had the self-confidence to do so.

'If it's not going to cause a problem, please can I stay?'

'Of course you can, but only as long as I can have those purple'y things with white edges on, on my desk, instead of those horrible yellow and orange thingy's'.

She threw her head in the air, whooped and did a little jig; I think I had just set someone free, but as she skipped out of the door she turned and said 'do you mean the Phalaenopsis Prchidaceae or the Paphiopedilums?'

I just loved it when she talked dirty.

~~~~

Chapter 26

After the realignment of the natural forces at El Campo I spent a few weeks away, but not by design, Mark was undergoing hopefully the last of his operations on his eye in Russia and he wanted me there with him, and so did his parents, so it was nice to be where I was wanted. Robin, Emma and I spent many an hour idly chatting about this and that as Mark lay sleeping, and Robin finally wheedled the truth out of me about what had recently transpired, and Emma, who had been reading a magazine and half listening, put her two penn'th in, 'perhaps you are going stir crazy in that place', and perhaps she was right, El Campo did have all the characteristics of a prison sometimes. I couldn't just wander out for a quick coffee at the local cafe any time I felt like it; David would go ballistic. On my return perhaps I should try to broaden my horizons, but how? Then I had an idea. Every Thursday Lady Hyacinth's four star restaurant, the one hidden under the mezzanine floor was up and running for business.

First off, most Monday mornings, one of Marcel's staff would ring the first four people on the list (that was getting longer and longer by the day). They could invite one person each (usually their husband or wife), and each of those eight persons had to tell him (or her) their favourite meal, complete with any idiosyncrasies. Everyone knew the rules so it always made for an interesting menu three days later, and either I or a member of the 'A' team would be there, not only to brush up on our own communication techniques, but to act as referee, so when I returned back home from Russia I 'took the table', not to show off, but to meet real people. I was well into my roast beef and Yorkshire pudding when a gentleman with a liking for Beef Wellington invited me along to his local yacht club for Sunday lunch. It wasn't one of the more prestigious clubs that I occasionally visited (unfortunately most of their members were right up their own backsides, any further and they would be seeing daylight), but after he assured me that it was more 'relaxed' than my usual haunts, I agreed, and Sunday morning found us both in my Palm Islander 420 making our way towards the Spinnaker Yacht Club. We had a slight problem coming alongside the 'visitor's pontoon', it was crowded with smaller boats, but my crew finally manage to nudge its way in, and dropped us off, they then went off to find a buoy somewhere, have their packed lunches, and await my command.

The club house and surrounding areas, including the pontoons had that well-worn look, but were not quite approaching their 'sell by dates' yet, and they were bustling with 'grotty yachties'. As I walked up and down the pontoons with Simon, my new friend, with James trying not to fall between the slats, not to far behind, I quickly understood his definition of 'relaxed'. As sure as 'eggs were eggs' everyone recognised me (if their glasses hadn't fallen overboard like one poor soul) but the most I got was 'Hi Mr Michael's, fancy a quick one before lunch' and then finally, after saying 'please call me Andrew' a few hundred times it was 'Hi Andy, throw this down your throat'. By the time it was dinner time (I was in little England now, dinner was at lunch time) I had developed a very comfortable glow, and was introduced to the Commodore, not because he especially wanted to speak to me, it was traditional for him to greet all the members on Sundays, if he was 'on board', and then we made our way to our table, not a special one, just one that was vacant in the middle of the mêlée. Finally, after Spotted Dick and custard, it was a large brandy in the bar, and then Simon asked if I wanted to come on a quick test drive to put his mate's new engine through the mill. I politely declined but insisted on him going, I would be fine here, and he should take all the time he wanted, I had no intention of leaving this little haven for a while yet. The yacht club was on a peninsular that curved around a small natural bay, and there was a chandlery, and a showroom for new and used boats, and a few nautically associated shops, but the most striking thing about the whole place was a huge spinnaker shaped rock separating the Yacht Club from the town and river on the other side, giving the Club its name. It meant that with just one barrier, and a couple of security guards the whole place was in splendid isolation, if you were there, you were a yachtie. After my brandy I made excuses to my new friends and went for a stroll to clear my head, and risking David's wrath I instructed James to have a coffee on the veranda, and for the first time in a long, long, time I strolled alone, back along the jetties. It was as though I was a long lost friend returning from the outback, not someone that they had met for the first time a couple of hours before, and after a few polite refusals I accepted a coffee from two delightful ladies of indeterminate age, on the deck of their beautifully kept motor yacht, although they weren't too sure about the motor part, the yacht hadn't been to sea in ten years, and as I sat there in relaxing company I made yet another of my instant decisions, if I was invited, which I had been about ten times already, I would join the club, this island of tranquillity was just too good for me to miss. With this in mind I eventually made my way towards the showroom, as it looked as though I would be in the market for 'something a little smaller'. The 4-20 was way too big (and I also had to bring a crew along, who knows, they might just cramp my style), and the RIB's were just too powerful for a quiet potter about on the 'oggin. The showroom looked as though it was still open; I imagined that they did most of their business at weekends, so I wandered in, passing below that ominous sign _B & S Skinner, yacht brokers_ that hung above the doors.

It was a large, airy, and it was full of Tupperware boats, (fibre glass boats) but I spotted trouble looming on the horizon, if her name started with S, I was straight out of here. She was tall and slim, had short salt and pepper hair and had a short-ish nautically themed skirt on, with a sailor blouse, and she looked absolutely knacke done in.

'Hello Mr Michaels, my name is Breena Skinner, I was hoping you would call in, I need a new tyre for the Toyota.'

'Phew', I thought, that was close, but I was not out of the woods yet, not only had she got a sense of humour, she also had a delightful Geordie accent.

'Please call me Andrew' I said and then continued 'Breena? That's an odd name.'

'It's short for Sabrina, but if you call me that I will scratch your eyes out, I'm only a 34C.'

Obviously it was the standard family joke that was often cracked in front of comfortable friends, not total strangers, so she went bright red and quickly continued 'but I only move onto first name terms when a sale is concluded'.

'Hurry up and sell me something then, I quite like Breena,' and then we both went into fits of laughter, although I didn't think it was all that funny.

Within fifteen minutes I had found out that she was divorced, Skinner was her maiden name and _B_ was for Brian, her brother. She had joined the brokerage firm six years ago following her divorce. She didn't have enough money left over to buy anything suitable outright so she invested it in her brothers firm and moved in with him and his wife. Touch wood (touching my head) things weren't going too badly, despite the recession.

'Touch my head again woman and I will kiss you' I thought, and then we got down to boats, after first apologising for spilling her life story. 'I must be tired' she said, 'it's been a long week, but at least tomorrow is my day off.

I explained my dilemma, and after sympathising profusely 'at my condition' we started looking for a suitable boat, it had to be small-ish – but not too small, fast-ish – but not too fast, easy to handle solo, I was certain about that, and I definitely didn't want plastic.

That narrowed the field down a bit so she said 'do you mind 'pre-loved', I much prefer it to 'second-hand'.

**Second-hand,** I'm a billionaire, I don't do **second hand** , then I thought about my Hunters, Aquarama, and the railway engines that were starting to turn up on my door step, well not many anyway.

She had an idea and we went outside. Under an oversized car port was a beautiful looking boat, just a smidging over 36 feet (11 Meters), and it was a hybrid, her chined hull **was** plastic 'but a very good plastic', but the rest of her was pure wood. Someone had spent a lot of time and money on this one, and she had a lovely clean bottom (but back to the boat). Even though she was out of the water I could tell that the designer had the high speed rescue launches and motor torpedo boats of another era at the back of his mind (it really was a man thing), and I quickly followed Breena up the ladder, at this stage I would have followed her into a blast furnace, but unfortunately my charismatic charm didn't seem to be working at the moment. The smaller rear cabin was only for show, underneath the gleaming canopy were two shiny Volvos, and they were huge, then forward of the large open cockpit (although there was a cunning cover for inclement weather) was the galley, lounge, and right in the bow the Captain's cabin, complete with head and shower, it was only really a two berth 'but friends could always doss on the settees' she said.

Not on your Nelly I thought, although with the right colour sheets I imagined that the cabin could be made to look quite nice. It looked almost new so I asked Breena about 'G Wizz's' history.

It had been built just over two years ago by a bespoke boat builder in the South of England, to very strict specifications, and as money was no object to the owner to be, no corners were cut. Upon taking delivery of 'G Wizz' (if I bought it, that name would have to go) the new owner decided rather than have her transported to the Mediterranean, it would be a good idea for him and his new wife to sail it there, via the French canals. The canal system is a proven way of ferrying small craft to the Med but unfortunately by the time they arrived in the Med his new bride hated the noisy, smelly, cramped 'little thing' with a vengeance, and when it finally came to a standstill in the Spinnaker Yacht Marina, and silence finally assaulted her ears she presented him with a choice, 'it or me'. For some obscure reason he chose her, and so the 'one owner, hardly used' G Wizz was put up for sale, but unfortunately it was so 'individual' that it would only appeal to a very limited clientele. It wasn't in any sense of the word - economical, it had limited accommodation, and had so many extras piled on it that it was excruciatingly expensive for its size; I wonder what it would look like in green. When we returned to her office we talked turkey, what was her bottom line, I was still thinking of the sight of her climbing up that ladder, and when she told me I nearly fainted, but if it meant that she would call me Andrew then it would be worth every cent.

'How about a test drive' I asked.

'Certainly', but she couldn't have it in the water before midday mańana.

'Isn't Monday your day off?' I asked her.

'Oh I will do almost anything for a quick sale' (hold that thought, I thought), 'even give up my day off'.

Drat, but I did notice that she didn't offer to let her brother do the driving.

Simon then turned up to play gooseberry, so after making a date of it I reluctantly left, but I would return, and at the crack of mid-day I stood on their pontoon and watched Breena edge the G Wizz (or G to her friends) towards the jetty, she had just negotiated a new mortgage at the fuel bunker to top up the tanks, and after nimbly climbing on board (and sucking in my tummy at the same time) she eased the launch out into the mirror smooth Mediterranean. First she showed me what G could do, then I was allowed to put her through her paces, and I was so impressed that I almost forgot about the tight jeans and plunging neck line, almost, but not quite. As it was technically her day off apparently she could relax her self-imposed dress code slightly, any more relaxed and she would be arrested I thought, but who's complaining. As we surged past El Rincon, the restaurant that I had stolen from Vicente and Lady H, I asked her if she was feeling a bit peckish, and nodded to the prestigious eating hostelry.

'There, oh it's to die for' she said 'but it's a national holiday, you have to book at least a month in advance to get a table on a fiesta day.'

'More like six weeks, give or take', I thought, then said in a hopeful voice 'Well let's give it a try shall we?'

'You get us in there and I'll have your baby, or maybe even two'.

Now really hold that thought, I thought again, and smiled to myself, I was definitely starting to turn into a right devious little so and so. Two years ago, as the prices and standards started to drop slightly I mentioned this to Emilio, the owner, and I had his tale of woe.

'All restaurateurs were feeling the pinch and doing the same', but I put it to him that if one of the top flight establishments held their nerve and kept, or even improved on their standards then clients with a fine palate, and a wallet to match would flock to it. 'You may lose a few of your regulars, but would more than make up for it with new ones that were becoming dissatisfied with their regular hostelry'.

'Possibly', he said, 'but I don't have the finances to take the gamble'.

But I did, so I became a silent partner. First off I purchased some waste land behind the hotel and turned it into a landing strip, more for my own convenience, but over the following two years it caught on, especially when the Spanish Royalty discovered it. I also had my marina people construct a landing stage to encourage the nautical visitors, but that didn't seem to be as much of a hit at first. After climbing to the top of the steps the last thing that clients wanted was something to eat, oxygen maybe, but not food, until today. With Carol's interest in a funicular railway between the Marina and the Miniature railway I investigated the possibility of having a small one installed up from the pontoon, and it had opened for business only hours earlier, so I eased G alongside a rather large schooner, that was taking up the whole of the pontoon (arrogant so and so, who does he thing he is - me?). It was standard practice if pontoons are full, just as long as you had clean fenders and were using the correct footwear, stiletto heels can wreak havoc on a timber deck. I helped Breena down onto the pontoon and we made our way up the funicular, but we were almost at the top before I realized that we were still holding hands, oops. I noticed also that the car park was full of big shiny cars and there were at least two helicopters and a Cessna parked out the back, although I wasn't surprised that one of them was Twinkle, David or James must be lurking in the shadows somewhere. Breena nervously gripped my hand as Emilio approached, and was shell shocked when he kissed her on both cheeks and said, 'Nice to see you again Ms Skinner, or please may I call you Breena, your brother and his wife not with you today?' He then turned to me 'Hello Andrew, your table is ready, as always' and led the way.

I may be a silent partner, but no way was I going to be an absent one.

Over our lunch I came clean about El Rincon, but told her that I still wasn't going to let her off the babies. She gave me a scowl, but didn't make any comment, although was that a hint of a blush on her cheeks? And when a fairly Senior Spanish Royal came over to say 'adios' on his way out, was she impressed, or what.

On our way back down the funicular Breena must have suffered from altitude sickness as she insisted on a spot of mouth to mouth resuscitation, and when we clambered on board G, a very serious dilemma arose. As we had consumed the best part of a rather nice bottle of Rosé between us, we couldn't decide if we were over the limit or not, so we decided to err on the side of caution and have forty winks first. Fortuitously she had called in at the haberdashers as well as the fuel bunker this morning so it wasn't too uncomfortable in the Captain's cabin, although we did get coitus interruptus'ed after twenty of them, the schooner wanted to leave.

They transferred our mooring lines to the pontoon and tied us up again as it slipped out, but just as the skipper was about to set off into the wild blue yonder he indicated to my inside-out shirt and muttered, 'that explains it, the amount of rocking about your boat was doing - the least I expected was a Storm Force ten'.

As I was dragged unceremoniously back down to the cabin I thought, 'at my age I'm lucky to reach a Gale Force eight', but Breena didn't seem to mind. Now about those remaining twenty winks? - and as we lay there waiting for the Rosé to wear off (and perhaps a Gentle Breeze Force three to kick in) we swopped sea stories about our past lives. She knew about Sheila and Sandra from the television, but Sasha hadn't caught the media's attention as much, so I bought her up to date on that episode in my life, but Breena was a bit nervous about coming clean about her exploits, but I was a big boy, I didn't expect her to be all virginal, after all she had two children.

Her marriage had lasted almost twenty-five years, which in this day and age wasn't too bad, and then her husband went off to give his secretary some personal dictation, and just after her divorce had been finalized, she had met up with the wrong kind of guy, but fortunately she saw the light just before the cheque cleared. Once she was settled in Spain she met a very nice gentleman at the yacht club, but after six months it ended in tears, not hers, his, he was sooooo boring, then after a year of self-inflicted celibacy she met another very nice gentleman, who bought a very nice boat from her, and they were quickly on first name terms, but unfortunately there was one very small problem, his wife (she was only five foot two), so for four years she was the 'other woman', which worked out fine for both of them. Then last October her 'friend-with-benefits' finally took his still blissfully ignorant wife back to the UK, permanently, although he did return to 'put the villa on the market' a month later. She took a week's holiday, but on the first night that they actually 'slept' together, up until then there hadn't been much time for actual sleep, she found out that he snored terribly, so the next morning she was back at the brokerage, and he put the villa on the market. The affair had run its course, no one had been hurt, and his wife thought that it was very sweet that he came back three days early.

As we made our way sedately back to the marina I confessed that I had been sold on G Wizz from first sight, but had kept it from her.

'What' she shrieked, 'you mean that I didn't have to drop my knickers to get the sale'.

I told her to 'wash her mouth out, and stop telling porky-pies', she hadn't been wearing any, and then threw her overboard. Fortunately she could swim so I quickly had her back on board again, (who said I was boring), but then we nearly had our first tiff. She liked the idea of the Hunter green hull, but didn't like the idea of the gold stripe, and whilst she was on the subject, 'I don't like her new name either, 'Tender to the Lady S' just doesn't trip off the tongue', although I knew exactly where I was going to keep her, there was a nice little space between the funnel and the hangar where she would fit perfectly.

We tried to do the whole courting bit, but finally decided that we were a bit too long in the tooth to waste valuable time, so after spending the following weekend with me at El Campo she sort of just didn't go back, and she fitted in brilliantly. When I took her to meet Sheila, George and Millie it was a lovely day, so we just lounged around on the cushioning inside the volcano, talking if we wanted to, being quiet when it suited us, and I realized that at this moment in time I was where I wanted to be, with someone that I wasn't trying to impress, or trying to emulate. We were both about the same level socially, and both liked the same things, although if I had met her six years ago I definitely wouldn't have had an affair with her, but it might have crossed my mind briefly. As I lay there dozing, my head on her lap, she finished her novel and slapped me on the stomach with it 'here' she said 'try reading this, I think you might like it.'

I looked at the cover, 'Road to Recovery' by Tony Wilson. Perhaps another tiff was brewing; I thought I had told her that I liked techno-thrillers – not the history of the RAC.

~~~~

Chapter 27

Shortly after becoming a member of the Royal Yacht Squadron, and officially becoming 'a gentleman interested in sea yachting' I, or rather RYS Lady S received a gold embossed invitation to partake in an event from the first Saturday after the last Tuesday in July, until the following Saturday, in plain English it was 'Cowes Week'. The regatta had first started in 1826 so the organising committee had had more than enough time to get its act together, and so clipped to the back of it was a note:-

' _Would I be interested in becoming the start line for this, that and the other events - the finish line for a few more - the host for this, that and the other receptions - etc, etc, etc, and if I had time to spare, would I like to 'light the first firework on Friday',_ (I gathered from the wording that there would be a few more sparklers to follow it).

P.S. perhaps you might like to arrive the Wednesday before the first Sat.... etc for the briefings.

As the 'note' was signed by the Admiral himself I quickly twigged that it wasn't a request, it was more along the lines of a 'Royal Command', and as I didn't want to end up in the Castles dungeons I RSVP'd:- _'Sounds good to me , see you the Wednesday before the first ..........'._

Breena and I duly arrived with RYS Lady S on the appointed day, and it was throwing it down, but we quickly realised that rain was not a consideration when organising a sailing regatta, reception, BBQ or firework display where the grotty yachtie fraternity were concerned, it was just a minor inconvenience. 'Is it' was the usual reply when I mentioned it in passing, water pouring down my neck. As this was Breena's 'outing' I decided to ease her gently into it, until HRH's mum decided to pop in un-announced for a cuppa and a quick look round. As I said to her (Breena not 'his' mum), I was thrown in at the deep end, and all I ever kept repeating to myself, over and over again in my mind was, 'it doesn't matter if I mess it all up, I'm still richer than they are' (well apart from one or two). It was 'organised chaos', but in the end it all went swimmingly, quite literally for a lot of the participants (it was blustery as well as wet), but at least the rain stopped for the fireworks.

We (I like the word we) left Cowes Saturday lunchtime, waving to shed loads of new friends and set sail for Portsmouth harbour, although it wasn't very far away, we could see it, which was very fortuitous as my (sorry our) First Officer and eleven of my permanent crew were not on board, although they hadn't gone AWOL on the Isle of Wight, they had been press-ganged. As we followed the shipping lane towards the harbour mouth we paused to embark two Royal Navy Merlin helicopters covered in Hunter green paint (complete with gold stripes), 'very pretty' I thought, and they were quickly pushed into the 'shed' out of harm's way. As we entered the harbour all manner of ships piped us, tooted us and generally made strange noises at us, but we couldn't hang about gossiping, as the saying goes 'tide and time wait'eth for no man', and in this case it was the tide, we were about to enter HM Dockyard Portsmouth's 'tide-less basin'. As the tidal water in the Harbour reached the same level as in the basin, the caisson separating the waters was removed and the Lady S slipped in. Once safely inside, the caisson was replaced, and it was 'GOTCHA', and RYS Lady S became HMY Lady S (it must be very confusing for her). She had been commandeered; she was now Her Majesty's Yacht Lady S, although I knew all about it, I had lent her to HRH for his hol's. Of course it wasn't just for his holidays; it was for a Royal visit or two, and for the past month or so Lady S's jetty at El Campo was more along the lines of HM Dockyard San Miguel. I had taken HRH up on his not so subtle hint, and was going to 'lend' him the Lady S for about eight months all told. The Royal Navy would provide the crew for her, and as per HMY Britannia of days of old, the Yachtsmen, Senior Rates and Officers would be the best of the best, although I was pleased that my First Officer and the eleven of my crew that were reservists had all been re-activated for the duration, it wasn't as though she would be in the hands of total strangers. The new crew had started to arrive a month ago and had been shadowing my crew ever since, although I was a bit confused over Robert my First Officer; he was suddenly called 'Jimmy' (the nickname for the First Lieutenant of a RN ship). After Carol had eased her alongside, and she was securely tied up, Breena, myself and my crew disembarked onto the jetty where Rear Admiral 'Hank' Williams RN, whom I had first met after my contra taunt with the Pirates off Somalia was waiting (it is traditional that an Admiral be the 'Captain' of the Royal Yacht) along with the new crew of HMY Lady S, it was time for her commissioning ceremony, although I had quietly warned Hank that any dents and the repairs would come out of his pocket, although they should really come out of Jimmy's, as for the next eight months he was going to be paid twice for doing the same job. The new crew looked immaculate in their Number 1's - with medals, but what got my eyelids fluttering was the fact that they all had the Royal Yacht flash on their right arm and the yachtsmen had 'Royal (royal crown) Yacht' on their cap tallies. The guard with their rifles flashing and 'the royal' Royal Marine band did its stuff, and then the Lady S was a member of the grey funnel line, although she would still remain green. In the next few days she would be moved into a dry dock where something secret would be bolted to her bottom, for security reasons, (I asked what it was, but was told that if they told me – they would then have to shoot me, so I left it at that) and an extra nine coats of paint added to her hull, to give it the 'Royal shine'. During early discussions with Hank I had asked about any permanent optional extras that might be added to 'my' ship, and the only major items were to be the 'bottom' sensors, some extra radio bits and pieces, and ECM's (electronic counter measures), but those bits would be safely locked away when I got her back, and only Jimmy would have the key, paranoia or what.

'What about me' I asked, with not a hint of joviality in my voice, 'it's my ship after all', and after a very long pregnant pause it was agreed that I could have one as well , after I had signed the 'Official Secrets Act'. I think that that meant that if I left my key lying around, they could shoot me, and then Hank wondered if I might consider a name change for the Lady S, but fortunately I had done my research, 'with Royal Yachts of old being called 'Fubbs', 'Kitchen', 'Royal Caroline' and 'Victoria and Albert', I could see nothing wrong with Lady S'.

'Point taken', change of subject.

'Do you want me to empty the stuff out of her stern?' I asked, referring to the sting-er or two.

With a perfect 'Nelson', Hank said 'what stern?'

'Mind you if you use any of them, you replace them'.

After the ceremony I was 'invited' back on board for the party, but it wasn't the same, for heaven's sakes she even had her own air force now. The two Merlin's, which were now ranged 'ceremonially' side by side on the flight deck were outfitted almost as swish as my AW109S Grand, almost - but not quite, although to give them their due, mine was not air-to-air missile compatible.

As the Merlin's had to return to Yeovilton that evening, Breena and I thumbed a lift to Eastleigh airport in one, where we transferred to the Grumman, although I left most of my crew behind, they would now be 'shadowing' their Navy counterparts until they were fully au fait with her.

~~~~

Chapter 28

As autumn gently arrived Breena settled in perfectly, no tantrums, she just blended in. Even Mrs Blake's nose wasn't knocked out of joint, and fortunately Sam was ambidextrous, she was quite happy being a valet and a Lady's Maid.

We spent a considerable amount of time with Mark as his eye healed, he would always be blind in one eye, but with glasses he should have reasonable sight in the other, and he was a visible reminder to the press to keep their distance, no matter where we went we saw neither hide non hair of them, but they were replaced by yet more builders at El Campo, they were storming ahead with the railway track - every time I blinked another kilometre of track had been laid. The engine shed (AKA 'C' hangar) had finally been discounted (it was far to near my bedroom window for comfort), so a purpose built one was being constructed close to the picnic area. It was not really sour grapes on my part; apparently there are people out there that are actually prepared to pay good money just to wander around such places, although 'C' hangar had been turned into a temporary holding shed. Rail track had been laid on the concrete, and each new locomotive that arrived was given 'a good seeing to', by yet more new employees (that were being temporarily housed by the staff of my new 'Director of Human Resources'), as they were all second hand, some had even been built in the 1920's.

With all this activity going on around the place I was starting to feel slightly redundant, but Breena came to my rescue yet again – 'pictures', not the action pact movies in my very own climate controlled cinema, but 'pictures – that you hang on the walls'. She had noticed that most of mine looked as though they had been given away free with two settees from the local furniture shop, and I must admit that pictures had not been one of my highest priorities when fitting out Mi Casa, so we did an audit (that's like a list – but posher) and toured every nook and cranny of the hallways, ballrooms, family and guest rooms, and found that for a man of my standing (no comments please) I was woefully under displayed, but what about the staff quarters I hear you ask – OK, they can have the redundant freebee's from the furniture shops, and on completion of the 'audit/list' we retired to my office, fired up the computer and Breena said 'right, what artists do you like?'

'Don't know' I replied.

'Right then, what pictures do you like?'

'Don't know' I replied.

'Well – do you want abstract, contemporary, classical, impressionist, art deco, fantasy, minimalist, surrealist. Landscapes, seascapes, cityscapes, still-life, floral, rural or mythological?'

'Yes please' I said.

Breena then thought it was going to be a long day, so out came a blank piece of paper and it quickly turned into another list,

Painters **:-**

**Da Vinci** – 'Mona Lisa' and 'the Last supper' – quite liked them - 3 stars

**Michelangelo** – interior decorator that specialised in ceilings – just had mine done - 1 cross

**Monet** – haystack, poppy field, woman with brolly – really liked them - 4 stars

**Van Gogh** – pass

**Rembrandt** – double pass

**Picasso** – I couldn't work out which way up some went – but still 2 stars

**Jackson Pollock** – apparently he painted 'No.5' – done the paint by numbers thing – 1 cross

**Sargent** – really did like the 'morning walk' and 'nude Egyptian girl' (and not just because of her bum) - 5 stars

**Lowry** – yes and no – liked the matchstick men, but some 'paintings' looked as though he had found them on the floor after a kindergarten art class, and signed them – 3 stars and a cross

As one can see I have the making of a top flight art critic, then it was onto the next list,

Style **:-**

'What styles do you like, cubism, abstract, con.....' but I stopped her mid flow. I quite liked the Egyptian bum. Deep sigh and change of subject.

'Do you like oils? (messy), watercolours? (runny), etching? (later dear), reproductions? (what!!! forgeries), prints..... enough, enough, I think that this project is going to be far bigger than either of us imagined, so onto the final list'

Prices **:-**

Ok – you now have an idea of my taste, what do you think they will cost?

'Seeing your taste, about a million.

'That's not too bad' I said.

'Each' – she finished 'and that's only the ones for the loo's, add a few noughts for the rest.

'It's only money' I squeaked, so over the next few weeks we took to the skies and visited all the art museums, galleries and collectors that we could cajole into opening their portals to us, and slowly a 'style' of my own formed in my mind – recognisable-ism'. If it had ever graced the top of a chocolate box, or been inside a calendar – I wanted it. Not for me the obscure or ugly, I wanted what I, and my family and friends would recognise, and the more people that I talked too (in swore secrecy) about it, the more I realised that this project was going to have world-wide implications, and if I got it wrong I could be fleeced something rotten, but, as the saying goes, even the longest journey starts with a single step, so after a few words with Hyacinth, we took that step (metaphorically speaking), into the very exclusive Cul-de-Sac Art Gallery, Knightsbridge, London SW3. Hyacinth, who is arguably the most terrifying person that I know (although she can also be a pussy cat – but that's for another time) positively quaked in her Prada's at the mere mention of 'Miss Antoinette's' name, apparently Miss A was quite young for her age (?), but knew the business inside out and back to front, aparantly ' _there were no flies on her_ ', perhaps the lady prefered zips!, and if there was one single person that could keep all the wolves, jackals and opportunists at bay for me, it was her, and her sense of humour was legendary – she thought not. The only slight problem was that apparently Miss Antoinette was not for hire, so I thought a spot of the Michaels charm might do the trick.

Breena and I, with James, Kurt and Pierre in the background, presented ourselves outside the window of the emporium at the appointed hour, and we were just in time to see the rear elevation of a very sleek figure setting an abstract watercolour, by someone who was having a mental breakdown at the time, on a display easel. It looked hideous (the painting, not the figure) so obviously it would cost a small fortune. Once the figure was fully satisfied that the painting was just so, she stepped back to admire it, and sensing that we were on the other side of the armoured glass, turned, and instantly converted it into frosted glass, what a stare. Not a muscle on her square chiselled face so much as flinched, but her half closed beady eyes bore straight through the inch thick glass, through my eyes, and straight into my soul. Normally I would have cowered away in fear, but what the hell I thought; this must be Miss A, time for the charm offensive. I looked at the painting, then back at her and signalled for her to rotate the painting 45 degrees. Not a flicker of emotion showed on the creaseless face, completely devoid of any 'laughter', or other 'lines', but still she rotated it. I shook my head and signalled her to rotate it a further 45 degree. Ordered compliance, and again my head shook. Without further bidding, and still without a glimmer of emotion, she rotated it the final 45 degrees, and I raised my hand to my chin, and started to rub it thoughtfully, then eureka, it hit me. I put a startled look on my face, a finger in the air like a marionette, and signalled her to reverse the painting, front to back. After complying with my request I clapped in glee, gave her the thumbs up, and mouthed _'Perfect -I want it'_ , and was about to make my way towards the door when she suddenly erupted into fits of uncontrolled hysterical laughter, fell against the window and slid unceremoniously down it.

Leaving Kurt outside to guard the Cul-de-Sac we were eventually invited inside the gallery by a very upset assistant, she had never heard those strange sounds emerging from her boss before. Finally an 'almost back to normal' Miss Antoinette emerged empty handed from the window display, and I asked her where my painting was.

'You were serious?' she spluttered, between giggles, 'it's horrendous'.

'I know' I replied, 'but I have the perfect place to hang it, where I can study it in quiet contemplation every day, and perhaps even growing to love it'.

'In a conservatory?' she queried.

'No, on the back of my toilet door'.

That was it, she was off again, but finally we started to communicate in more than just sign language, and I decided to have a look around before I mentioned the 'C' word (Consultancy).

Half an hour later we were 'out back' rubbernecking through some lesser pieces when the buzzer rang, her 'twelve o'clock' seemed to be fifteen minutes late. She had assumed that the miscreant appointee was a 'no show', and had just dispatched her assistant for an early lunch, so Miss A went and answered the now urgent summons herself. It was indeed the twelve o'clock, returning for a second view of a particularly nice piece (that was now on a display easel, centre stage, in anticipation of the sale), and after half-heartedly apologising for his tardiness he gave a perfunctory glance at the painting and asked to use the 'facilities', and disappeared inside.

Kurt, who hailed from Blackpool, had been taken on by Mr 'A' to strengthen his close protection squad. He had done some time in the Military Police, and then underwent 'retraining' by civilian 'para-military' Contractors, to protect hi-value 'advisers' in various war torn countries. Whilst he was in the body guard division he was happy to take their silly money, but then they 'asked' him to transfer to a black-ops team (as usual there is no such thing as a free lunch) and sensibly he quickly relocated to Spain, that was the destination of the first vacant seat out of the airport, not even pausing to pack a bag, and after a surreptitious phone call to the Colonel he was now innocently propping up the wall beneath the street sign 'Downton Walk - Cul-de-Sac', blissfully unaware that the said walk, with the appropriately named art gallery in it, was now Downton Walk 'period'. Following bomb damage during the blitz, the building at the end of the Cul-de-Sac was obliterated, and over the ensuing years a very popular short-cut developed. Many years late the local council recognised this, and when granting permission for a new block of flats they made it a stipulation that the short-cut should remain, but forgot to change the existing sign at the other end, and so as he rested against the wall, Sydney slipped un-noticed behind him into the gallery. After a short while of trying to blend in with the brickwork Kurt noticed a car pull up on the double yellow lines at the end of the walk, so it took a few moments for the two men in the front of the car to realise that he was there, and a few more to realise what he most like was (the 'filth'), so they did what came naturally to them in these sorts of circumstances, and panicked. First the driver gave four long blasts on the cars horn, which certainly got Kurt's attention, and he hoisted himself from the wall and 'eyeballed' the occupants, and it was stalemate until three muffled shots and an explosion emanated from within the gallery. On hearing the shots Kurt put two and two together – and went for his gun, but the passenger pushed the snout of a sawn-off shotgun (that he had prepared earlier) through the open window and pulled both triggers. If he had been more experienced in the ways of gun lore, and realised that he had the slight advantage here, he would have taken a moment to aim the weapon more accurately, but no, and Kurt received the contents of both barrels between his ankles and knees, and he slid down the wall, but his training (and buckets of adrenalin) kicked in, and as he sat against the wall he continued drawing his weapon and pointed it in the direction of the passenger, but he was groping around in his pockets trying to find replacement cartridges (it always pays to come well prepared!!!), the more pressing danger was coming from the driver, who, unfortunately for him was left handed. He had pulled a huge Browning automatic from his trousers belt, and turned to join in the fun, but found his accomplice's bulk was in the way, so he leaned forward against the steering-wheel and hoisted the weapon in front of him and started to point it in the general direction of the 'fuzz'. Kurt, seeing him perfectly silhouetted against the 'Specsavers' window opposite, corrected his aim (he certainly didn't need to go to Specsavers) and although he had always been taught to aim for the central body mass first, as he couldn't see it through the passengers' bulk, he instead put two well-aimed rounds half an inch in front of his left ear. By this time the passenger had recovered a handful of cartridges from the bottom of his trouser pocket, and was trying to stuff them into the shotgun, so erring on the side of caution he adjusted his aim slightly and repeated the process, it would have been just his luck for the car door to have blocked his bullets. He then leaned back against the wall, looked down at his legs, and was sick over what remained of his Giorgio Armani trousers.

..............

When the urgent sound of the car horn reached the twelve o'clocker's ears he was three-quarters of the way through snorting a line of coke (for Dutch courage), off of the marble worktop, so his brain was not in the perfect shape to interpret what it fully meant. He knew that things had turned pear shaped, and should get the hell out of there, but he had watched too many 'cops and robbers' on the television and reached for the revolver in his open brief case. Sydney was from a fairly well-to-do family that had fallen on hard times, and he started to seek solace first in expensive malts, then lager, and finally as he approached rock bottom, 'illegal substances', and when his habit finally outstripped his wallet, his dealer of choice 'just knew someone who needed a hand with a job'. No he wasn't a plumber; he was tea-leaf (thief), with a taste for Art. What he needed was a posh geezer with a bit of class, and some fancy threads, to get into an art gallery and case the joint, which initially was all that was required of him to clear his debt, but when it became clear that security was such that your normal run of the mill villain would not get through the front door, his job description changed. At first he refused flatly, and then as more and more 'freebie' cocaine disappeared up his nose it didn't seem such a problem, and finally, when it was agreed that his cut would come in the form of white power, and lots of it, he was in, but when Sydney burst out of the toilet, gun in hand, he found that whilst within, the situation without, had changed drastically.

...............

When we heard the new visitor request to use the loo Breena and I wandered through to have a look at the painting that he was so interested in, and James and Pierre instinctively moved to the door. Breena quickly lost interest in the painting and started to return to the rear of the gallery, just as the horn sounded, and Sydney burst forth.

Pierre, my First Sergent, wanted something a bit more challenging than being in my 'uniformed section' so he brow beat his friend David into training him up for 'plain cloths', but this was his first 'probationary' outing into the real world, and he forgot two very basic points, one – never go to a gunfight with only a knife (he had not yet received permission to carry a concealed weapon), and two – let the dog see the bone, ie James see Sydney, and he instictively lunged towards the gunman – completely blocking James's view of him.

Sydney, in his drug induced haze saw James and Pierre blocking his escape route, but to him that was a minor point as he was now in his element, so he stopped, calmly stood sideways, as he had seen a hundred times on telly and in his video games, and using a single handed grip, lifted the revolver up, thumbing the hammer back as he did so, pointed it at the charging Pierre, and pulled the trigger, and Pierre's throat disappeared in a fountain of froth.

James, who was frantically trying to get a 'line of sight' on the gunman, dispassionately noted Pierre's problem, and in a macabre way he was relieved as Pierre dropped to the floor, trying to staunch the flow of blood, and he got his first clear view of the gunman and his weapon. He quickly noted that the gunman was obviously high, which, in his mind made him even more dangerous, and that his weapon was an antique looking, very heavy .45 calibre revolver. It would have a huge recoil, and once it had been pulled back down into line again, the gunman would then have to re-cock it, probably using two hands, before it could be discharged again, but as he started to bring his own weapon up, the .455 Webley-Fosbery Automatic revolver rocked slightly, and was quickly back in line with James's head. 'Perhaps he might still have trouble re-cocking the vintage weapon' James desperately thought, as Sydney pulled the trigger, and in the time it took for the slug to travel up the barrel, and cover the distance between it and James's right eye, a part of his soon to be decimated brain noted the zigzag groves on the side of its cylinder, and thought 'oh dear, it's an automatic revolver, I've heard of them, but never actually seen one before', or words to that effect.

...............

_Col. VG Fosbery conceived this unusual weapon in the late 19_ th _century, and by 1901 Webley & Scott were producing them in limited numbers, and whilst they had a few of the advantages of a conventional automatic (reduced re-coil & higher rate of fire) they were complicated, and so didn't stand up well to the rigors of war. Although never accepted into the military, several young cavalry officers purchased them as their personal weapon, and this particular one was brought back from the Great War (WW1) by a very grey haired 'young' Officer. It was then passed on through the generations, with virtually no maintenance, until it was stolen by an opportunist burglar, along with a beautifully crafted 12 bore double barrelled shotgun. They were then sold on for fifty quid, and the Fosbery was then liberally coated in penetrating and car engine oil, until it seemed to work OK, and the barrel of the shotgun was sawn off and its hand carved stock decimated, and was now residing in the car outside. The expected return on the painting that they were trying to steal was about £5.000, split three ways – if they were lucky; the two guns would probably have fetched twice that much from an unscrupulous collector._

...............

At the sound of the first shot I turned, just in time to see blood erupting from the remains of Pierre's throat, and then James's brain blast over the glass door behind him as the second shot rang out. The gunman was actually smiling as he turned and pointed the revolver at Breena, her only crime – standing between him and the painting, so he shot her, and arterial blood gushed from her chest. The three shots came so fast that people outside thought it was a machine-gun that was being used, but he had not finished yet, he saw Miss Antoinette and I stood to the side of the painting, and slowly turned and levelled the revolver again. Instinctively I moved to cover her as he calmly closed one eye and sighted along the barrel at a point between my eyes, and I knew that he couldn't miss, and he gently, almost lovingly, squeezed the trigger, and then several unexpected thing happened almost simultaneously.

First, due to the lack of proper maintenance the by now heavily carbon'd up barrel and workings of this museum piece malfunctioned, caused in no small part by the use of winter grade motor oil instead of gun oil, and I saw, as I gazed back over the fore and rear sights, and into his pin prick of an iris, the barrel explode, and part of his hand, complete with two fingers, fly off in one direction. The chamber, with the jammed round forcing it on, shot back, and either due to metal fatigue or by the damage caused by the explosion, there was nothing to stop it, and it careered into his face, decimating the bridge of his nose and embedding itself in his brain, and then, just for good measure one or both of the remaining rounds sympathetically exploded. As his head literally erupted in front of me, my brain, or whatever part of my being that controlled such things said – 'that's it -enough is enough' and switched me off. I didn't just faint, my whole 'being', 'spirit', 'mind', 'essence' or whatever it was called – shut down. I was now just a collection of bones and organs held together by an outer wrapper – called skin. Fortunately an insignificant little box situated somewhere deep within, kept me breathing, but everything else just shut down, and a little while later a Police Sergeant succinctly described my condition to a detective as 'originally I thought that his lights were off, but somebody was at home – then realised that the fuse had blown'.

Following the demise of Sydney, Miss Antoinette's austere upbringing (laughter had been a punishable offence) came to Pierre's rescue, she may not have known how to dress a dolly – but she did know how to perform a traciotomy using Pierre's 'super tool 300' clipped to his belt, and a ball point pen from his jackets inside pocket. First she quickly checked in passing that I was ok, no serious injuries, so she rolled me quickly into the recovery position, and then it was up skirt and she was straddling Pierre, and stabbing what was left of his throat with a razor sharp blade from his 'must have' fashion accessory. Even the pliers came in handy to pull the jammed innards out of the barrel of the pen (after first breaking a nail on it at the first attempt) and pushing the said barrel into the hole. It was crude, but it kept him alive until the paramedics arrived.

~~~~

Chapter 29

My inert body was quickly transported to the nearby Royal Brompton hospital, and quickly they conducted every known test ever devised by the medical profession - that related to the heart and kidneys. No faults found, so it was back into the ambulance (apparently I was renting it by the hour) and over to the Royal Marsden, where they quickly confirmed that I was not riddled with Cancer, so it was back into my home from home/ambulance, and I was half way to the Lister Hospital before some eagle eyed paramedic noticed that I was not a female, so their world famous gynaecology department was probably not going to pronounce me pregnant, and then the driver had a brain-wave, perhaps it was all in my mind, 'let's take him to the loony bin, sorry the Bethlem Royal hospital', where I lay in a catatonic stupor for a week, until tests proved conclusively that I was 'intrinsic', in other words they didn't know what had caused my fuse to blow, but did I give a jot – no, in fact I didn't know what a jot was – or a give – or a but – or anything else for that matter. Wherever the part of me that distinguished me from a cabbage was situated, it had completely shut down, and even if someone had miraculously gotten through to it, they would have found that there was nothing available to translate it into usable information, they had a better chance of getting a response from a brick wall if they shouted at in fluent gobbledy-gook.

After that profound pronouncement, all and sundry in the field of psychiatry then descended on my inert frame, and it was open season for every wild theory and half-baked test ever dreamt up, with some even muttering incantations under their breath as they carried them out, although Robin and Alice did draw the line at cattle prods, and finally they unanimously decided on a case conference, and for over eight hours the great and good in the profession theorised and debated every aspect of my 'problem', and then finally, just before the restaurant closed its doors for the evening, they reached a unanimous decision – I was living proof that man was descended from cabbages – not apes.

With that Robin and Alice had me transferred to the peace and tranquillity of a world famous sanatorium high in the Swiss Alps, although it might as well have been a B&B at the end of Gatwick airports main runway, I couldn't hear a thing, and certainly didn't know what a peace, or a tranquillity was. After six weeks they then came to the conclusion that what this world famous sanatorium was famous for was its pricing structure, anywhere else in the free World its Board of Directors would have been arrested and put in front of a firing squad years ago, so finally I was taken home to El Campo, and what do I remember of my flight of fancy, absolutely nothing, unless you consider a big black void – something (what's a black? What's a void?) and from then on I apparently had round-the-clock care from every 'ist in the book, Nutritionists, Cardiologists, and Therapists of every persuasion. I had Endocrinologists, Dental Hygienists, Histologists, in fact the only one that I didn't partake of their services were the Pathologists. As my body was now becoming a shadow of its former self I was now also regularly being beaten, thumped, squeezed and twisted by a gang of masochists, which were collectively known as Physiotherapists, but as you can guess I never felt a thing, in fact a Dentist did two fillings without any anaesthetic, and I never flinched a muscle (normally when they said 'this won't hurt' I would threaten to grab hold of their 'spherical's' and say 'you and me both').

It was three months after my shut-down when Alice found the right 'ist, he had a small practice in the now 'slowly coming back to life Pueblo', and she saw the writing on the wall, _Holistic Therapist._ You either believe that they are charlatans, only skilled in the practice of parting you from your hard earned cash, or they can work medical miracles without the need to slice you open or fill you full of toxic substances. Fortunately Alice was one of the latter and pushed Kia through the door.

Francisco, 'please call me Paco', welcomed her in fluent Spanish, but that wasn't too much of a problem, she was well into the final few discs of Rosetta Stone, and because business was 'slack' he was able to give her a 'seeing to' straight away, if that was alright. Paco's wife, Alba, took Kia off to play and he led her into his treatment room. Everything was subdued, the soothing aroma of joss sticks filled her nostrils, and a relaxation CD started to calm her down. Alice had always considered herself calm (she did – I didn't), but after an hour and a half she felt like a new woman (please, no references to Burt), but what had really worked the magic for her were his fingers. At the end of the massage and reflexology he had placed them, in a set sequence, first on her feet, then her hands and finally on her head, just spreading his fingers over certain pulse points and holding them gently in a light grip, and this is where the sceptics think they are being ripped off, as he quietly sat there, eyes closed for a few minute, and Alice could feel first her muscles and tendons relax, and then her brain became one with all the other energies within her being, and she was totally at peace with her inner self, and the rest of the world (for the sceptics among you – she had just had a quick nap). Once she returned to reality and slowly put on her blouse and jeans (thank god she was wearing clean undies – she thought), first she thought of Kia, but reassuring laughter came from down the corridor, then she thought 'how much'. If this had been Switzerland then it would now be a quick trip to the bank to arrange for an overdraft, but no this was Spain, 'Oh no, nothing, it was time for my comida (lunch) anyway, let's say that it was a complimentary first treatment, and led her towards the room from whence her infants giggles had so recently emanated, but now only the ominous sound of utter silence emerged. As they entered Paco and Alba's private rooms, Alice found out the reason for her sons unaccustomed silence, Alba was shovelling spoon-full after spoon-full of lentejas (lentil soup) down his mouth. To say that he was a fussy eater was like saying that Michelangelo was a bit of a painter and decorator, but he never even paused to acknowledge her arrival. Another bowl was set down and she was sat in front of it. First her eyes surveyed the creation, and her lip started to curl, but then a delicate aroma reached her nostrils, so she thought 'if Kia likes it, perhaps a soupcon, and after that one spoonful she knew that she had just met Marcel's equal, and then halfway through her second bowl she remembered Kurt, he was waiting outside for her, in an un-seasonal downpour.

After his encounter with the wrong end of the shotgun Kurt recovered well from his injuries, only to fall foul of the hospital. He contracted MRSA, or Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus for short, and the Doctors were soon advising him that his foot should come off, but Kurt was having none of it – it was from just below the knee, or nothing, he would have much better prospects of future employment with a trans-tibial prosthetic leg (often referred to as a "BK" or below the knee prosthesis in the prosthetic industry - yawn) than with a block of wood for a foot (not quite an accurate description, but he believed it was close enough), but after the amputation, recovery, convalescence and fitting of a 'top of the range' jobby (not a technical expression), on full pay, he was not sacked – so he didn't have to look for a new job, what a waste of a perfectly healthy lower leg, and as the bionic man (as he was now called by all and sundry – but usually out of ear shot), he quickly regained his former dexterity. First he started back at the bottom again, guarding the laundry, past the pets' pooper scoopers, and finally back to body guarding 'family', hence he now found himself standing outside some quacks 'clinic', in the pouring rain, after Mrs Carter had disappeared inside (and he had verified that it was the only entrance) almost two miserable hours ago. Suddenly he was dragged inside, covered in fleecy white towels, and plonked down beside the 'family', and instructed to consume a bowl of 'soup, with bits in it' (a full English breakfast usually stretched his culinary expertise) by the quacks 'broad'. Perhaps Paco and Alba weren't that bad after all.

Fifteen minutes later, as they all tucked into home-made Paella, Alice, between mouthfuls, asked Paco what he thought about her father's condition, and Kurt was mortified, 'confidential information', but as his mouth was full of yellow rice, snails, squid, and some unpronounceable things, he politely refrained from speaking, after all, in reality it was the main topic of conversation in every bar and café in the pueblo, so the top secret 'secret' was fairly common knowledge to everyone, and Paco's solution – 'let me get my hands on him'. In fact twice he had presented himself at the gates of El Campo, but had almost been shot both times (Carlos was a sceptic as well), but an hour later the five of them entered El Campo main gates, and not a single shot rang out. After handing a very contented, and sound asleep Kia over to Inma, she led her new friends into her fathers' room. The staff gymnasiums changing room had been situated next to the medical centre, and had now been converted into my new sleeping quarters, or rather my catatonic stupor, open bracket – intrinsic – close bracket, quarters, but did I give a jot, of course not, and neither did I know what a jot was, or – etc, etc.

Despite Freyja's protestations (she was now on 'permanent loan' from the hotel/hospital, along with a gaggle of other nurses, as 'supervising enfemera (nurse)', and was another sceptic) Alba placed her joss sticks around the room and a relaxation CD was soon sending out its subliminal message, and Paco quietly administered his ministrations, but in the end he felt none of the energy flows that always came through his fingertips, it had never happened to him before, although as he dejectedly left the room he felt a slight tingling in one of his fingers when he touched it with his thumb, so he paused, touched it again, but nothing – 'must be a touch of cramp'. Inside my black void, as he applied his gentle pressure, for just a few seconds a slight dark blue hue appeared at one edge, but as I didn't know what an edge was, or a blue, or a second, or even a just, it didn't bother me one little jot (what's a jot?).

Paco wasn't a quitter, so he said that he would come back mańana and try again, and good as his word he did, and the tingling was slightly stronger, and my dark blue edge lasted for a few more seconds (what's a more?), and as he persevered, over the weeks that followed the sensations increased, and my dark blue edge remained a little longer, until finally, well into his third week he touched my head and found the connection from his last visit still there, and my body gave an almost imperceptible shudder, and relaxed ever so slightly, and if Freyja had not been watching me like a hawk (which she did almost every time Paco appeared) it would have gone unnoticed by everyone but Paco (and who would have ever believed that charlatan), and inside my black void the blue edge ever so slightly eased the black to one side, allowing a scrabble tile with the letter Q on it to slide in the gap. Of course I didn't recognise it as it was back to front and upside down, but it was a start, and although I didn't know what a Q was, or a scrabble, from little acorns do great oak trees grow. From then on Paco visited me twice, sometimes even three times a day, and not only during the day, when he couldn't sleep, then in the early hours of the morning as well, most of the time just sitting there cradling my head in his fingertips, and Freyja, along with most other people could see my relaxation improving, and then the inevitable happened, 'a family crisis' and Paco had to go away for three days, so Freyja, that great disbeliever, asked if she could help by standing in for him. Paco was sceptical, 'it wasn't like applying for a job, you cannot have on the job training, you had to have a 'calling' for it', but he gave her a quick 'test drive' anyway. Freyja sat as she had seen him sit at least a hundred times before, and went to place her fingers around my head – but found that they had a will of their own, and suddenly she felt a surge of energy come up from her fingertips, through her whole being, and out of her now open mouth, leaving a vile taste behind, and for ten minutes she sat transfixed at the head of my bed, then she heaved, and was violently sick over my pillow, but her fingers never faltered, and inside my head the dark blue hue slowly changed to pink, and started to push the black void even faster to one side, and yet more scrabble tiles started to tumble in, it was starting to get very crowded in there, what is a crowd? – but I did like the colour pink.

Paco realised that Freyja was his sole partner, what he lacked - she had, and by the time he returned early from the family crisis (after all it was only his mothers' funeral, it wasn't as if she was in a position to miss him), I was moving my fingers and toes slightly. Message understood, and from then on one or the other, or even both of them were on one of my extremities, and inside by head, foot, finger, or wherever my sole, or being, or sub conscious level was, and things started to slowly sort themselves out. Paco reckoned that deep down, the most embarrassing thing happening to me was that I became incontinent, and so my first significant improvement was – I had bladder control, maybe not a significant event for most people, but to those around me it was a gigantic leap, (what's a leap?, oh yes a big jump, but what's a jump?) And then Paco went against the mainstream specialists and declared my room 'a noisy area'. Up until now everyone crept around me, talking in hushed whispers and generally treating me as though I could hear something, he _wanted_ me to hear something – anything - so my room became Central Station, everyone and anyone could clatter in, chatter away, and if they knocked something over, even better, and then Mr Smith from Canada (AKA Charlie) had an idea, out came my old wheelchair, and after dusting it down and fitting a Heath Robinson device to stop my head bouncing around I was out into the big wide world, and once they placed reflective sun glasses on me, hiding my glazed eyes, everyone wanted to stop the procession and have a one way chat with me, then finally, just before he disappeared off in his business jet (with no visible markings on it) he took me for a swim, although not very far, as the tubes and cables weren't waterproof, but that was soon sorted. I didn't know what water was, but if felt very nice all the same.

On the whole I continued to 'ever so slightly' improve, but occasionally the inside of my head would go into absolute turmoil, and quite a number of 'ists were getting concurned, so I was wired into yet more devices which pumped small doses of sedative into me when I started to get agitated, which could be at absolutely anytime. It might be when I was in bed, when someone walked into my room, or whilst I was being wheeled down a corridor, something, somewhere seemed to trigger a reaction, and according to them it wasn't very nice, but all that I knew was that I was back in that black void, what is a...... (Oh forget it, you get the idea).

Almost five months after going into my stupor, Paco and Freyja's hard graft started to pay off big time, and even the worst of sceptics thought that there might just be a glimmer of light at the end of my tunnel, and this verily worried them, the 'attacks' for want of a better word, were increasing, and the general consensus of opinion was now that if I suddenly regained full consciousness, and all my memories flooded back at once, it would either put me back into my catatonic stupor permanently, or even worse (for whom) my heart would give out, and they doubted that my new machines could cope, so like the President of the good old US of A, I now had a follower, but unlike the Presidents follower, who had all the nuclear holocaust codes in his briefcase, mine was a nurse who had a syringe full of gunge, that would put me back in my black hole temporarily, and hopefully stop my brain from frying itself, and finally it was put to the test.

Freyja was doing her thing with her hands (after of course warming them first) on my head, Alice was sat at the foot of my bed stroking my leg, and now 'not so little' Mark, who was visiting with Robin and his mummy, found a switch on a redundant bit of machinery, and he clicked it on, and he clicked it off, and he clicked it on, and he clicked it off, and continued doing it until he had happily converted everyone within earshot into potential homicidal maniacs, and Alice was the first to crack. 'Will you....' she started to say, but the grunt and glare from Freyja stopped her mid-sentence, with each click Freyja had felt something different coming through her fingertips, and at the same time I gave a twitch. She signalled Alice to encourage Mark to continue, but now that he had Aunties approval it wasn't such fun, in fact it was no fun at all, but one look at her face and he was flicking away like a Trojan, she had felt the twitches in my leg; and the next one to crack was me. I went rigid, my eyes flew open, and if it had been a scene from a horror movie, demons and goollies would be seen pouring from Freyja's wide open mouth, and then her hands were physically thrown from my head and she was flung back against the wall behind her by an invisible force, and I then turned my head, looked Mark in the eyes and shouted **'** _Will somebody stop that obnoxious little brat from making that racket'_ **.** Please don't get me wrong, I usually love children, especially with roast potatoes and broccoli, and from the foot of my bed I heard Alice say 'That little brat is your grand-son', I noticed that she didn't deny his status as I turned my head to face her, but before I could say another word blood erupted from her blouse, and her head started to explode, and then I was safely back in my black void, Freyja had rebounded off the wall and into the sterile kidney dish, with the pre-loaded syringe in it, and even in her dazed state her training took over and she expertly rammed the needle into my cannula, just in the nick of time.

Now that I was safely under their control, experts rushed in from all over the globe, and took over my consciousness level, and over the next week or so, first manually, then automatically, as more sophisticated machines were drafted it, they first bought me to a semi-conscious state and talked me through my 'problems', and then as things 'sorted themselves out inside' I was able to remain awake for quite a period of time, until my one big demon dragged me back again, and nothing that they could say or do could coax it out into the open, and this is when I hit the headlines around the world again, not once but twice. It was Doctor Morag McHaimish's turn to chat me up, and, as with the rest of the clan, she had to ask me a trigger question during some irrelevant chit chat, to observe my response, and she slipped in 'it's a pity about Pierre's vocal cords', and waited.

Pierre had survived, due in no small part to Miss A's quick actions, although he would never speak again, and would always breath through a tube in what was left of his throat, and absentmindedly I said 'yes, but at least he is happily married now, although it's a pity it rained on their grand occasion', and that got her attention, it was still early days and she knew that no-one had mentioned anything about his wedding, and even she didn't know about the rain.

'How do you know that it rained' she asked, sensing that something had changed inside my head.

'Maria told me when she and Carlos returned from his wedding (to Francesca) at the stud farm'

'When', she asked.

'Let me see, normally she calls in for a chat mid-morning to bring me up to speed on what is going on around the place, and then to say good-night about eight in the evening, but as their Air Lingus flight from JFK was late she popped in about eleven o'clock to tell me all about the wedding, so that must be seventy-five days ago'.

To say that she was gob-smacked was an understatement and quickly she asked Maria to come in, and to bring her diary with her.

Maria confirmed the one way conversation with me, as I had lain in my catatonic stupor, but on checking her diary I was one day out – but never mind, I was close enough, then Maria re-checked her diary entry, 'no, Andrew is right, I made the note of our return the following day'.

As more things began to drop into place inside 'wherever it was', they realised that not only was there a little box inside me keeping me breathing, there was also a very large battery powered tape recorder whirring away 24/7, and around the world relatives and friends had renewed hope for their loved ones that were in a coma, and then a week later Morag blushed – world-wide. Her knickers got in a twist, literally, and as she squirmed to get them sorted out, very 'lady likely', I asked her if they were the same ones that had given her trouble two days before all the specialists had gone their separate ways, and left me in the care of Paco, 'the blue ones, with a little red rosebud in the waist band'.

Morag was mortified, it was a Tuesday so she was indeed wearing the terrible blue ones (but they were very expensive so she wasn't going to give up on them quite yet), and then she almost fainted, she had gone back to Scotland on a Thursday, flights were usually cheaper on a Thursday, but indeed two days before, they had been up to their usual tricks, and trying to disappear up where the sun don't shine, and as there was no-one about (except for Andrew laying un-moving, head pointing to the ceiling), she had quickly ducked behind a machine, hiked up her Harris Tweed and sorted them out. Even if Andrew had been awake there was no way that he could have seen her miscreant underwear, and then after rather embarrassingly informing her peers they delved deeper, but not into Morag's undergarments, and realised that my battery powered tape recorder had a camcorder attachment, which had the ability to travel 'out of body' and float around, which again cheered up all the loved ones around the world, but it terrified my two blonde nurses, but their secrets were safe, neither were 'natural' blondes. It also saved everyone having to update me on the happenings around the homestead, as within a week I could recall everything ever told to me, warts and all.

Finally, two weeks later, and innumerable case conferences, before, during and after dinner, they were starting to nod their heads when it was whispered 'perhaps this is as good as it gets, at least he has a bit of a life now', but I wanted all my life back, I wanted to fly the Lady S again, but not with an ambulance under one wing – just in case.

As I became more and more conscious of my surroundings I quickly remembered Paco's instrumental part in my recovery, but he had now been effectively side-lined by the experts with fancy letters behind their names, but eventually, when all these eminent figures finally 'all but gave up', it was Paco that I turned to.

One of the first things that Paco did, once he started on me, was ask Alice if he could borrow Rosetta Stone, but she was the wrong way round, English to Spanish, so Alice treated him to an early birthday present, and his mind was like a sponge, it soaked up the DVD's, and by the time he, Alice, Robin, Freyja and I sat down for our very own case conference he was 'cooking on gas', and finally we prised out of him his 'final solution'. He reckoned that my black void had been forced further and further into a corner, as more and more gremlins were pulled out, and was now making a 'last ditch stand', with 'the' one major thing that had finally pushed me over the top. The experts had covered all my known traumas, and successfully exorcized them, the deaths of Sheila, Breena and James, the accident, George and Millie's tragic demise, my coming into all that dosh (apparently it can be a traumatic experience to some people), my kidnap attempt, the mid Atlantic rescue, the drug dealers and all the other 'little' incidents in my new life, but none of them could shake free my one last demon, so Paco devised a plan – he would hypnotise me.

'That was the plan' I thought, I had been hypnotised by the best, but no, he wanted to hypnotise me into hypnotising myself, spooky.

He knew it was a desperate attempt, and it could undo all the excellent work that the Proff's had done, but I was adamant – I WANTED A PROPER LIFE, so I had long talks with Robin and Alice. Re-wrote my will and gave it to Vicente, and after saying my good-byes (just in case) I lay back in my favourite recliner and prepared myself for the worst – and hoped for the best, and I knew at that moment how a convict felt at execution time. First Paco wanted to try and get me to find the camcorder and use it to tell him, through me, what it saw, and that part was easy. I was out like a light and was quickly relaying to Paco what it saw, and finally we spotted the void, and as I approached it, it was as though I was gazing into Hades itself. I reached out to touch it but it was as if it was protected by an electric fence, wired directly into the National Grid, and I cried out in pain, but as I probed its defences, under the guidance of a very worried Paco, I finally managed to get a finger inside, then two, and finally my hand, but the whole experience was taking its toll on me 'in real time'. I was shaking violently, screaming, and sweat was pouring off me as Robin, Alice and Freyja held me down, but even before we started the hypnosis we all knew that this was going to be a 'one off' attempt, and it might very well end badly, so we all hung on, them on the outside – literally – me on the inside metaphorically. Finally, just as I was about to give up, my fingers touched something, and it fought back, but I held on and yanked it out of the void, and again I switched off, but not all the way, and for a week my sole, being, or whatever, fought with that box, and finally I managed to prise it open and looked inside, and that is when I was placed on a life support machine in the real world. Another week passed but finally the machines told everyone that I was slowly winning, and starting to come to terms with my demon, and my systems started to function again, until finally I just opened my eyes and smiled at Robin. It was his 'shift', and it was two o'clock in the morning, and very scientifically he asked 'Well, do you know what it was?'

As I lay there, I closed my eyes again, and watched my video camera re-wind and then leave my body and circle round me, I was on the bridge of the Lady S, dressed in a flak jacket and Kevlar helmet, and watched as David turned to me with a quizzical look on his face, and I nodded, and he quietly said 'engage', and through that single, innocuous gesture ten men/ boys, and three women died. All they were doing was trying to feed their families the only way that they knew how, and in all probability no-one on the yachts would have gotten seriously hurt if I hadn't intervened, but in the mayhem that followed I did not have the luxury of coming to terms with it, and as time passed, and I was fêted as a hero by all and sundry, it got pushed further and further to the back of my mind, but sub-sub-sub-consciously it was never forgotten – until that day in the gallery when my mind was pushed just a step too far.

The experts quickly put the label of PTSD or 'post-traumatic stress disorder', for long, on my 'problem' and left it in the hands of their minions to sort out, and went too far distant lands to recover from their 'stress' at having to deal with me, which in almost all cases involved sandy beaches and/or luxury cruise liners, although one, Morag, only paid a quick visit to her local M&S and purchased a set of matching blue undies, she didn't want to spoil her tried and tested routine - but then the label fell off and my brain started to fry.

Freyja went way above her pay grade and gave me an arm full of the gunge, and waited for them all to return. What happened was that I had started to have conversations with people, not normally a problem, but within a couple of days my room was crowded, and I was holding individual conversations with each person, all at the same time. It was when I was describing the look on my father's face to Freyja, when he had almost dropped me when he had tried to lift me out of my cot in the nursing home for the first time, and then started to get a blinding headache that she acted, something was obviously not quite right.

Finally they all reached a decision again, their first one was of course right, but after that last block had been dislodged my brain purged itself, just like when you de-frag a computer hard drive, only different. As everybody gets older, there is only so much room in a brain so it 'compresses' unwanted, or un-necessary information and dumps it in blocked up, redundant alley's (AKA- we forget it). My new problem was that my pills, potions, traumas, or whatever, had caused my brain to re-boot – and then start to recover everything, from every blind alley, and it was starting to overload. If something wasn't done, and soon, it would go critical and quite literally fry itself.

Following more case conferences, conducted in every corner of the world by conference calls, a pill was conceived that would drop a charging Rhino in its tracks, but would only slow my brain down to a crawl, in other words I would be almost normal, perhaps only holding two or three conversations at a time, but with every up – there is a down, and the down to these pills was that they would start eating my insides in a very short while, so a cunning plan was hatched.

First Freyja calmly drew off four large phials of my blood, almost an arm full, and placed them in a box, The box, which was in reality a shock proof, vibration proof, temperature controlled transportation receptacle specially designed for its one and only journey, was carefully handed to my fleetest of foot employee, who took off like a whippet. Down the empty corridors and through the open doors he sped, not even pausing as he hurdled the miniature railway track (which was specially devoided of railways) and launched himself into Twinkle, and Aaron had her airborne before the winged messenger had landed on the Wilton carpet. Not that he was airborne for long, Aaron set her down, none too gently beside Dingbat, with Natasha sat in the cockpit, and the throttle half way up the quadrant. Dingbat lived up to her name; she was a good ten knots faster than any other Hunter that I had. Although all my Hunters were identical, they were all different!!! Each one having an idiosyncrasy all of its own, and their pilots learned to love (or hate) their own particular aircrafts 'gift'.

Topsy took the box from the 'fleet of foot' that leapt from the back of Twinkle whilst it was still airborne, and slotted it into the specially converted drop-tank, clipped the door shut and nodded to Natasha, who released the brakes and finished pushing the throttle forward, and Dingbat leapt forward, the wing neatly catching Topsy behind the ear, 'that will teach him to pick Fred over me' she thought, 'I'm half the size of that tank' (meowwww). Dingbat roared down the runway and was airborne almost before she realised it, so quickly cleaning up the aircraft she let it strut its stuff, not bothering to waste time climbing for altitude, seconds counted. She had chosen this particular runway as it almost to the inch lined up with her destination one, the only slight problem being, was that it was quite a long way away, and between El Campo and Andrews favourite free lunch were quite a few houses, schools, high voltage cables and other normal considerations, but this wasn't a normal consideration. She had done two practice runs, one slowly in Twinkle and the other in her own aircraft Arabella, but now it was for real, and as she skimmed over schools (with all the children outside in the play-ground, waving at her), houses and farms (with their owners waving at her) and under the high voltage cable that spanned a motorway, the top of her fin a metre below the bright orange balls that made the lines visible to VFR aircraft (light aircraft navigating by the AA Book of the Road). Did the traffic mind her blasting the dust off the tops of the trucks with her jet wash, nope, there drivers were standing by the Guardia Civil Officers that had stopped the traffic for her, frantically waving her on. As she approached the Airbase and crossed the threshold of the runway she didn't even bother to put her undercarriage down, it was a really, really long runway. It had been constructed at the height of the cold war to take American B52 Bombers (it was rumoured that B52's needed assistance from the curvature of the Earth just to get airborne), and about half way down (give or take a foot or two) she lowered the undercarriage, set Dingbat firmly down, and slid to a halt beside Fred. She had been ever so slightly tempted to 'misjudge' it and squash her, but she wasn't absolutely certain that Dingbat would survive the clash of the Titans. Fred raced in (well ran very fast), unclipped the door, removed the box and leapt (well ran very fast again) over to a man in a space suit, who wasn't there, who took it from her and disappeared into the bowels of an aircraft that didn't exist. The last SR-71 flew in 1999, before being 'de-activated', but unless she was mistaken this looked to be a very active one, and there wasn't a spec of rust on its titanium. A refuelling tanker was valiantly trying to keep ahead of the consumption curve of the two P&W J58-P4 engines that were 'ticking over', as the little Hunter skidded to a halt, smoke billowing from its brakes, and as the box was transferred into the hands of a RSO (Reconnaissance Systems Officer) that never was, it was the signal for the fuel delivery operative to disconnect his hose, replace the fuel cap, close the panel and vacate the area, but he had only completed the first three items on his check list when the two huge engines above him went into afterburner and he and Fred were blown unceremoniously off the runway, quickly followed by a flaying refuelling hose. Natasha thought this was all very amusing, until her aircraft was caught in the maelstrom, and Dingbat weather cocked around 180% and almost became airborne in the jet-wash, and the Avon wasn't even switched on. Her story from then on was that she had 'flown' the Hunter back onto the ground, using its manual controls, 'cwiky' she thought 'this is almost as exciting as the ride to the Space Station'.

The SR-71 (that wasn't) stayed in afterburner until it met up with a tanker 'somewhere in the northern hemisphere' then continued on until it came to a land mass that everyone lovingly called America, so the pilot slowed it down. He had learned over his radio that when the President finally signed the cheque for all the broken glass in the government owned greenhouses in Portugal, the Country would be debt free (he had remembered Spain but forgot all about Portugal), and a message direct from his Commander –in- Chief made it clear that any more broken glass and the repairs would be financed out of his pay cheques.

The invisible SR-71 came to a standstill in a very visible public civilian airport, alongside a Marine Corp McDonnell Douglas TAV-8B two seat Harrier, and the RSO, who had somehow managed to climb out of his space suit, and into his 'day job' flight suit vacated the aircraft and was up the ladder and into the front seat of the 'jump jet' in a flash, clutching the box as if his own life depended on it (and according to his Commanding Officer – it did). The Crew Chief was close behind him, and yanked out the seat safety pins, and then fell off the ladder as the pilot, Major 'Dick' Head in the back seat got a tad 'over eager'. As they powered away the RSO made the aptly nicknamed pilot aware of two things, first, he wasn't strapped into his armed ejection seat, and second, the ladder was still on the side of the aircraft.

'Suppose we can't close the hood then, let's hope it doesn't rain', came the laconic reply, as he retracted his birds undercarriage, he didn't bother to comment on the first problem, **he** was safely strapped into **his** ejection seat.

As they approached the car park of the destination hospital two things out of the norm happened after he lowered the undercarriage, first the ladder gave up its struggle to hang on, and the top attachment broke loose, but the lower one held momentarily, fortunately stopping it from being swallowed up by the vector thrust engine (and converting it into an airborne scrap-heap), but it did cause the ladder to pivot out, and then under the belly of the aircraft, from whence came a thud, a strange vibration, and finally the undercarriage light turned red – oops.

He was only seconds from the very hard surface of the car park, so he made a quick decision (he was famous for these, hence his nickname); and selected the now useless undercarriage 'up' again, and looked for something softer to land on. Just in front of the world famous research hospitals grandiose main entrance he spotted a rose garden on a roundabout, perfect, and slid to halt 'maybe just a little too high' he thought (his front seater 'knew' that it was a lot too high) and shut down the engine. Three things then happened, one – gravity took charge of the aircraft and it belly flopped into the centre of the flower bed, two - whilst descending, the remnants of the engines jet-wash blasted the roses below, up, up, and away, along with the recently applied 'natural' fertilizer, and then three - gravity again took charge and deposited most of the 'fertilizer' back into the open cockpit. It was then that 'Dick' knew that he really was in the 'brown and sticky', and it smelt terrible.

Security Guard Jesse Owens had been named by his father 'Jesse Owens the second' even though his own name was Walter Owens. He was a fan of that famous American athlete and dearly wanted his new son to follow in his namesakes footsteps. He should have realised that it was wishful thinking when Jesse Mk2 took four days to crawl into the World, and his mother never even noticed. Jesse had been practicing holding this particular door open for two days, and finally he had mastered the technique of accomplishing the task, without blocking the opening only an hour earlier, so he was left holding it open, just in case '. He had been taken on by the hospital more for his 'mobile road blocking ability', rather than his mental or physical dexterity, but for the first time in his life he was 'ahead of the curve'. As the Harrier arrived (no one could really call it a landing) in front of him he knew it was 'his moment in time', 'his fifteen minutes of fame', and as everyone else either froze or dove for cover, he surged forward, only to be pulled up short, so he turned, and saw that his hand was still attached to the half wrenched off door handle. Letting go of it he surged forward again and charged down the steps, he had never actually used the steps before, not that he wasn't allowed to, they were just too complicated to use, he always used the wheelchair ramp, but as he reached the road that separated him from his destiny he started to flag, but fortunately his other piston deep within him fired up. The last time that this had happened was when Dim Daisy's father had found them in her room trying to play strip snap. Although they were both still fully clothed after an hour, he took off 'just in case'. He finally crossed the road, after first looking left, then right, then left again (or was it the other way round, so he did it both ways - just in case) and leapt onto the concrete bird bath that the pilot had kindly landed beside ('what bird bath' Captain Head was later heard to say). Only weeks before, his colleagues had persuaded him to enter a 'cross dressing' charity competition, but he'd had a nose bleed when he put on the high heeled shoes (fortunately for him, as in reality it was a formal affair), but he felt fearless as the ton of concrete wobbled under his unconventional arrival. Peering down into the front cockpit he nodded benignly at the occupant, but he was having a catatonic stupor (extrinsic) all of his own - it was extrinsic because the experts would immediately find out that it had been bought on by that idiot sat behind him, so Jesse glanced around the cockpit and spotted the only thing that wasn't bolted to the airframe (excluding the occupant), and grabbed it and gave it a firm yank, but it didn't move an inch, Again he tried, and this time the occupant was actually lifted bodily out of his seat a good six inches (America hasn't been metrificated yet), but still it was attached firmly to the occupant, so balling his fist he thumped it down on the top on his bone dome, and the poor RSO's head almost disappeared inside his body, but experts later declared that Jesse had 'snapped him out of his Catatonic Stupor (extrinsic)' (after he had recovered from his concussion), and Jesse wrenched the box from the unconscious man's frozen grasp (experts also declared that his arms would have in all probability been wrenched out of their sockets if he hadn't been poleaxed in the nick of time), and Jesse leapt fearlessly into the cow-dung. Pausing only to look both ways, like a demented windscreen wiper, and to pick up a few rose petals (his mother's favourite flower) he was off again, and blow the ramp, he took the steps two at a time, unfortunately there were an odd number of steps and he nearly came a cropper at the top, but there in front of him were two panes of glass, the one on the left enclosed in a door frame, complete with a half wrenched off handle, and now being held open by an untrained person, 'it must be for someone very important' he though, so fearlessly he charged through the other one. In front of him now was a lift, with its door held open, and a flight of stairs to the side of it, he knew his destination was two levels up so he charge up the stairs, he hated lifts – multiple choice buttons confused him, but after six steps he started to flag, but his 'second wind' kicked in, and it was onward and upward, and time to fulfil his destiny. As he reached the final step of the marble stair-case his twenty-fifth wind tried to wheeze its way inside him, but through two open doors he saw his final destination, the reason for his very existence, the reason he drew breath every day – Nurse Bentley, her chassis handed down from on high, and she was standing there looking at HIM, with her arms open wide, well wide enough to receive the box, _(she, along with everyone else in the Hospital had studiously refrained from making eye contact with him ever since he had first arrived there, apart from the ones that hadn't seen him at all, and then checked the bottom of their shoes after he had passed)_ and that was all the encouragement he needed. As he reached unheard of speeds (excluding the time that his coat had got caught in the door of a bus) he charged through the doors, unfortunately there was no glass at their sides so he hoped that he wouldn't upsetting anybody important, and past people that were actually cheering him on, and whistling, and whooping and he veritable flew, until everything went silent. They, and finally he realised that _'for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction'_ or in this case – stopping distance, the greater his speed, the longer the stopping distance, and usually he had no problem with stopping distances, even in a 'rush' it never took him more than six inches to come to a halt, but as he watched Nurse Bentley's face go ashen, and she frantically tried to remember the lines to the 'Hail Mary', it hit him, he was going to hit her, and despite her natural beauty, the aftermath wasn't going to be a pretty sight, so he locked his legs \- and fortunately the janitor had got the floor polish watered down to just the right consistency, too slippery and he would have slid through Nurse Bentley, through the laboratory and through the outside wall, and not slippery enough, he would have completed the same journey, only head first. He slid to a standstill in front of Nurse Bentley, whose face was now whiter than her uniform, and thrust the box into her still outstretched arms. She automatically clutched the proffered box, realized that she wasn't going to die, and in the absolute silence of the occasion, she broke wind. Turning bright crimson she turned and fled into the Haematology Department, where night and day fused into one.

Experts (ex – a has been, spert – a drip under pressure) from all around the globe fell into three neat categories, the first group (the pessimists) said it would take three months, the second group (the optimists) said it would take one month, and the third group (those who regularly talked to the fairies at the bottom of their gardens) said it would take two weeks, but six days after Jesse had collapsed in the doorway half dead, the doors were flung open and Nurse Bentley, still in the same uniform, but hopefully with a change of underwear, ceremonially handed a small pot of pills to Jesse, who still looked half dead – but this had more to do with the nine nurses who on hearing that their new local hero was a virgin, had tried to help him overcome his malady, (of course I am a virgin, I was born on the tenth of September) and the other twenty that heard that he was spectacularly good at one thing in his life. Jesse blushed at number seven, sorry Nurse Bentley, turned, and thrust it into the hands of the originally designated 'fleet of foot', who had really had his nose put out of joint by 'that lumbering Ox'. Jesse had heard what he'd had to say and now the 'fleet of foot' not only had his nose to worry about, he now had three cracked ribs to contend with as well.

For the pot of pills it was a similar journey to my armful of blood, only Lieutenant Head (whose father was possibly the only friend that the President had left – and whose rank was falling in direct proportion to the President's popularity rating) had had his horoscope read to him by his new Crew Chief, punctuated at regular intervals by a punch on the nose, and was now sedately sat in the driver's seat of the replacement TAV-8B (with a plaster over his nose). The RSO, now a General, having skipped a rank or two sat quivering in the front seat, (where threats of court martials and firing squads had failed, open bribery had succeeded), waiting to receive the pills from the 'not so fleet of foot'. The hospitals gardener had threatened to do something very nasty to the Hospital Administrator with his pricking out stick if the 'actual re-enactment – in reverse', for the benefit of the cameras, came anywhere near his new roses.

Pills safely in the pocket of the most senior RSO in the history of the US Air Force, the Harrier rose sedately into the air, after the crew chief; complete with ladder, had disappeared inside an armoured personnel carrier, and settled gently back down a few minutes later beside the SR-71. All television cameras were switched off within a ten mile radius of the airport (Presidential Order 01) for the occasion, but it was slightly academic, it was in full view of half a million spectators, and the RSO then claimed the second part of his bribe, and disappeared behind a hastily erected sheet, with two stunning 'survival suite specialists' who were almost in their un-suitable micro bikini's). Two minutes later, after a resounding smack was heard above the SR-71's idling engines, he was out and into the aircraft, after first checking that the pill pot was safely in his pressure suite pocket, and second, checking that the cheek with the hand print on it was away from the pilots view, and they were quickly airborne – _but no greenhouses were harmed in the making of_ _this_ _flight,_ and on arrival at my favourite watering hole he was quickly out, and handing the pot over to Fred, who stomped over to Dingbat and slammed it into Natasha's outstretched hand. Smiling primly at her arch rival, Natasha tucked the pills in her breast pocket – sorry delete that – chest pocket – forget that – oh forget it, and she was off down the runway, only just failing to solve Fred's earwax problem with the pitot/static tube on her wing tip, but at least she tried.

On arrival at El Campo Natasha missed the runways altogether, and set Dingbat down on the dogs-leg in the taxi-track, the dogs leg (not a real dogs leg, just a curve in the track) had precluded her from taking off from the track a week ago, and she was standing on the brakes well before the wheels made contact with the tarmac, 'let the Maxaret units (anti- locking units in the braking system ) earn their pay' she though, as smoke started to billow from yet another new set of brake pads. Just as she thought that she would miss the turning up to Mi Casa, there was a 'shift in the wind' ('I really must stop having curry before I fly', she though) and slid around the corner, and began the assent to the grandiose front doors. As she had plenty of speed she shut down the Avon and coasted silently up to the doors, sliding the hood, complete with makeup mirror (not important now, but it will be in a minute) back along its track. As she came to a halt, it theory (and practice, after practice) Topsy would then come forward with a set of chocks, place them either side of the nose wheel, and then come and take the pills from her out-stretched hand, but in this practice he had just come off the phone with Fred, and he snatched the pills out of her hand, and smiled sweetly at her - then Natasha noticed the chocks, in a flower bed, and Dingbat started to trundle slowly back down the incline. Her brakes were virtually useless so frantically slamming the hood shut, so she could use the rear view mirror, she guided the gathering speed (in the wrong direction) Hunter, with what little brakes that she had left, along the road towards Sasha's roundabout by the main gate, turning the corner onto the airfield was out of the question. Under normal circumstances Natasha's skill would have warranted the front page of Flight International, and numerous other aviation magazines, but at that moment all she wanted to do, apart from getting the silent engine started again, was to disembowel both of them, preferably with a blunt screwdriver. The Avon finally reached 'self-sustaining' RPM just before she reached the flower bed, and she slammed the throttle forward to its stop, and Dingbat at first slowed, and then finally reversed direction a mere metre away from the curb stone that was only fifth removed from Sasha's (don't forget lineage was very important to Sasha), but unfortunately the Avon has slightly more power that its Continental cousins, even the turbo charged ones, and every living thing on the roundabout was spread over the front of the Security Office, leaving just another forlorn bird bath in the centre.

'But what about the pills' I hear you ask, Topsy had correctly guessed that after that landing Dingbats brakes would be well and truly knac useless, so after giving its nose an encouraging pat/shove he trotted into Mi Casa, whistling as he went, and as he entered my room I asked him if he could sing, because he certainly couldn't whistle, and then I continued my conversations with Mrs Blake, Marcel and Inma, who seemed to be fascinated about Sheila's cross-stitch poem, the menu on our first Concord flight and what I had written on the inside of Patricia Barbers satchel, which had gotten me 'six of the best' from the Headmaster, until Freyja removed two pills from the Mach 3.3 pot, slipped them under my tongue, and firmly clamped my mouth shut until they dissolved. A couple of minutes later she removed her fingers and I looked at Mrs Blake, shouldn't she be below-stairs terrorising some young house maid?, and what on earth was Marcel prattling on about Concord for, it had been grounded for years, and who is Patricia Barber? Just like that I had the brain of a fifty year old, they wanted to adjust it to my actual age but I certainly wasn't ready for my free bus-pass just yet, and as if on cue, Miss A returned from her travels.

~~~~

Chapter 30

Following the shootings Miss Antoinette was in a quandary, she had assumed that Mr Michaels was just another visitor, passing trade, but he had actually made her genuinely laugh for the first time in her life, and for some inexplicable reason she wanted to see him again, but even if he hadn't been in a coma she wouldn't have had an excuse to approach him, she certainly wasn't that type of lady. It was only when Hyacinth (that sweet little old lady) visited her gallery with friends a few weeks later, and mentioned the real reason for his visit in passing (she had assumed that she already knew) that she plucked up the courage to do something about it, but what, then she had an idea. Mr Michaels was now off to Switzerland so she wrote to him there, confirming that she would accept his offer, and wished him a speedy recovery, crossed her fingers and toes, and left it to divine intervention.

I was receiving thousands of cards and letters of encouragement almost hourly, but somehow (destiny, divine intervention or luck) it was the one that Alice picked out of the sack that sat beside my bed. She had started to read them to me, 'just to let you know that you are not alone Daddy', and as she read it out aloud she faltered and read it again. The letters were usually very much of a muchness so she was turning into a bit of a automaton, but the words 'would accept his offer' brought her back to Planet Earth, then she recognised the headed notepaper and the signature at the bottom of the brief note. She had been meaning to ring Miss Antoinette, as everyone called her, to thank her for helping Daddy, and for saving poor Pierre's life, but one thing had lead to another and she kept putting it off, until she read the letter. Tomorrow she would be returning home, but via El Campo for a few days, it was her turn to keep an eye on it, whilst it was Robins turn to 'Daddy sit', so she picked up the phone and rang her. At first she thought she was talking to an answer phone, but when she told it who she was, it burst into tears, very confusing. Then they had a 'girlie chat' for half an hour, the first one that Miss A had ever had in her entire life, and they made plans for her to hitch a ride over to Switzerland with Robin in the G450, and then onward with her, to spend the weekend at El Campo to show her 'the place', and discuss the 'offer', although it turned out to be a 'very long' weekend, she hardly ever returned to her 'loft' in London. Alice loved her on sight (in the biblical sense – not carnal), but Robin's first impression was that she should have been put in the baggage hold along with the rest of the inanimate objects, but his first impression finally waned after Alice threatened to castrate him with a rusty tin opener.

Miss A (why do they all keep on calling me that, she often wondered) quickly realised that Alice and Gerry knew all about the intended offer of employment, Daddy and Breena had pounded their ears at every stage of their project. and so they were 'fully up to speed' (ugh), which was more than could be said for her, but after nodding benignly a few times 'she was quickly on board' (ugh, ugh). Fortunately Alice was all in favour of her involvement (and Gerry couldn't care less, it wasn't his money) so clutching her new bit of plastic in her grubby little mitt (hand) - she had her own 'gold card' but this one veritably glowed in the dark - she scouring the World for calendars and chocolate box lids, and slowly her tally grew. She didn't let Andrew down, she was such a hard barginer (is that a word?) that veteran auctioneers would throw themselves out of the windows rather than be in the same room as her (as long as they were on the ground floor), and 'private collectors' were rumoured to have ended up paying her to take the 'wretched' thing away, and over the following months she would periodically pop in to El Campo to empty her Sainsbury's shopping bag, and top up her tan, and today was a 'periodic', although it had been after a particularly long and protracted brow beating, but she was triumphantly clutching her reusable, eco-friendly, carrier bag.

'Hello Miss Antoinette, nice to see you again, good trip, did you get the Da Vinci? I said.

'The Da Vinci was last month, this (holding up her bag triumphantly) is the Monet', and placing it on the foot of my bed (please madam, I hardly know you) she pulled it out and held it up.

'Nice poppies' I said 'but for all that money it could have been a bit bigger, perhaps the repro can be blown up a bit', and that almost got her going, almost but not quite, better luck with the next attempt, so I continued 'please can I just call you Antoinette now, after all you have been spending an awful lot of my money, and we do have our own little secret'.

'Oh bother' she thought, 'the tape recorder had been running', she had hoped that something had been changing its tapes when her letter had arrived'.

Blushing profusely she said 'do you normally call people by their surname, like those horrible Americans (no disrespect to Americans, anyone without a British passport was horrible – to her).

'Sorry, I just thought it was an 'arty thing, you know like Miss Molly, or Miss Demeanour', I innocently said.

And that was it, within seconds tears were streaming down her face, and she had the stitch. I was really beginning to like her, anyone that could be reduced to tears by as terrible a joke as that was OK by me. (Miss Demeanour – misdemeanour – get it? – oh, forget it).

Finally she was able to get her breath back and gasped, 'no, my first name is Sigourney', but my father can trace our family tree back to the actual branch that they used to make the guillotine from.

'Good one' I thought, trying rather unsuccessfully to be serious.

'That's a very nice name', I said, and then the penny dropped and I flung myself back on the pillow and howled 'it starts with an S'.

'I know' she said in a very husky voice, which had nothing to do with the stitch, and my sheet started to rise to the occasion.

Before engaging brain I blurted out 'but you are only half my age, what will people say'.

'Well' she said, in a voice that could only be described as 'oozing sex from every syllable, 'if it's only a matter of mathematics, then my identical twin Simone can always make up the numbers', and with that my sheet was in shreds, I wonder why?

~~~~

Chapter 31

I found out the answer to that question a few days later when I was granted an audience by an American lady who deigned to be in the company of a mere mortal. I was actually soaking up **MY** bit of the sun, on **MY** sun bed, beside **MY** pool when she wafted in. She introduced herself (one of the Connecticut something or others), gave me a potted history of her short life's achievements - X amount of silver spoons in her mouth at birth (apparently she wasn't delivered – she was 'announced'), youngest ever child beauty-pageant queen, prom queen, had three Summa cum Laudes (sun tan creams?) and delivered the valedictorian at high-school, college and university (was that like being a postie?), then she went on to why she had selected this particular Pharmaceutical Company to have the honour of making her an offer of employment, although she got a bit miffed when half way through her recital I rolled onto my front and asked her to rub some factor 40 on my back, perhaps it wasn't her Company's brand. Finally, just before Marcel would have pronounced me 'well done', she came to the point, she was here to chat about my new pills. First - the 'side effect' that they had just discovered (now that got my attention), apparently I would now have an enhanced libido, and as she stood there waiting for my reaction, a gust of wind blew her skirt up - and I got it, but thank god I was lying face down. Then she got on to the multiple choice questions, 'do I like the shape of the pills' - as I was their only recipient, someone in 'Customer Care' must have thought 'let's give him a choice' (and get rid of her for a few days as a bonus).

'Round are so boring, can I have square ones?

'Errrr I am sure that we can comply with your request', 'are you happy with them staying white?

'I would prefer sky blue pink, with purple spots on', and at that moment I think that she realised that I was extracting the Michael, (oops, nearly said urine), but she gave it one last go.

'We can give them different flavours, which ones would you prefer?

I lay there for a moment in serious deliberation, and said 'fish and chips, salt and vinegar crisps, and black pudding flavours please'.

Collecting her things she quietly stormed off, throwing the rest of her questions into my swimming pool in passing.

'Ah well' I thought, 'my gain, her work colleagues loss', but it did explain the sheet, and my 'morning glories', I thought I just needed the loo.

Next it was Topsy's turn, was I up for a quick trip in my wheelchair? I was slowly getting my strength back but it would be a while before I could walk very far, or watch an air display standing up, so as a refusal would upset an awful lot of people I said 'yes', and after putting my dressing gown on Sigourney pushed me through Mi Casa and out onto the Heli-pad, whence I had a major problem, should I watch the aerobatics – or Sigourney, she hadn't but a dressing gown on, and was almost topless (and bottomless – in fact her bottom was) and Topsy was having the same problem, until Fred, or as she was now pregnant, Joyce, broke him a rib.

Even before I'd had the big sleep, first Teddy and then Topsy had been busy, they had been on a recruiting drive, not just for personnel but also aircraft, and very quickly people on the circuit realised that he had just reached (and passed) the magical twenty two, 'was the Green Diamonds going to go for a world record beating twenty-three aircraft loop?', and Topsy's answer was always the same, 'I can neither confirm nor deny that there will be a record breaking attempt (he was definitely spending too much time on the Lady S, the floating one), but I can categorically state that if there is, Mr Michaels will be the first to see it', and at the last large show of the season the Green Diamonds' had equalled the world record, whilst Natasha stood beside Arabella on the flight line.

After Sigourney had put on the dressing gown that Joyce had thrust into her hands the show started, and it was spectacular, and I can categorically state that ' _they did not do a twenty three aircraft loop'._

The next day was the day before my birthday, and as usual I was strapped into a Hunter, but this one was a Mk7D, and Natasha was driving. I had special permission from the medics to fly, but only if I wore a neck brace, anti-G suite, special 'support bits and bobs' (that made me look like the incredible Hulk), and I didn't touch the controls.

'Of course I wouldn't' I said, and then uncrossed my fingers. I had joined Natasha at RNAS Culdrose (David's favourite Military Hospital), and had been fork lifted (?) into the aircraft, and on Topsy's mark I pressed my 'press to transmit' button (it's not really a control – is it).

' _Farnborough Approach, this is the Lady S_ (like the US President and Air Force One, whichever aircraft/boat/golf buggy I was in was the Lady S) _requesting permission to 'fly by', and then join left hand circuit for landing._ Were they going to poop on my parade, or not?

Or not, _Lady S, this is Farnborough approach, you are cleared for 'fly by' and left hand circuit to land, by the way are you on your own?'_

'Look at your radar screen you moron' I thought, _'only a couple of chicks Farnborough approach, will be overhead in three zero seconds, out'._

Thirty seconds later Natasha took the centre line down Farnborough's main runway, with eleven gleaming Hunters on her port wing and ten on her starboard, which made a grand total of twenty two aircraft, but the next to the last position on the starboard wing was empty, we were in the 'missing comrade' formation, and apparently the crowds went wild.

As I was wheeled around the flight-line and then into the Control Tower, the only question that I was asked was 'are you going for the record,' and I would shrug my shoulders (well as much as my neck brace would allow me to) and gave an enigmatic smile, which I had been practicing in a mirror in front of a new painting that had appeared in my bedroom (I hoped that crossed fingers worked on gestures as well), as Topsy had been practicing his arithmetic:- 1x1 = a singleton, 2x2 = the ace of diamonds, 3x3 = an even bigger ace of diamonds, 4x4 = 'Mr Andrew Michaels very own Sixteen of Diamonds', and 5x5 = well and truly, a new world record - if a jobs worth doing, it's worth doing well, and I hoped that the Programme Director has some smelling salts handy as three of my team were still at Culdrose – waiting for mańana.

###

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About the author

I spent twenty-two years in the Fleet Air Arm (Royal Navy) as an Aircraft Mechanic, most of my time as a Maintenance Supervisor. Following a brief time driving heavy goods vehicles I then spent a further fourteen years as a Housing Officer for a Local Authority/Housing Association before being medically retired.

I have two children (and a growing number of grandchildren) from my first marriage, and following my retirement, met, married, and relocated to Spain with Melva.

This book is the second in my _Andrew Michaels_ trilogy. Hopefully you will have already read the first, Road to Recovery, but if you haven't, then perhaps a journey back in time will fill in a few blanks. The third, Above and Beyond has also now been released.

Connect with me Online:

http://www.tonywilson.es

 https://www.smashwords.com/profile/tonywilson
