A Selection from the Catchfire Press book... 'HEAVEN'S GATE'
Chapter 18 By two thirty-five, Jake was airborne. Guided by the GPS, he tracked south-west towards his first waypoint on the north-eastern border of the Richmond military control zone. He eyed the ominous weather ahead. Dark, cranky clouds sagged over the mountains. Lightning rippled and writhed in their bruised bellies. To the west, virga hung like a veil from enraged cumulus. The low cloud base would keep fixed-wing aircraft on the ground, but if it deteriorated any further it would also ground him. He maintained an airspeed of eighty knots to give him best range. It would save him precious fuel but it had meant departing nine minutes earlier than planned. Ten minutes after departure, he had reached his first waypoint. He pencilled in the ATA on his flight plan and reset the GPS for his next leg. From this point on, he would be transiting through the Richmond Military Control Zone. The GPS guided him to a position overhead of the high voltage tower near the Putty road.
The Land Cruiser rocked off the dirt road onto the smooth blacktop. "The weather looks bleak up ahead," said McDonald, more to himself than to his wife. "At least the roads are all sealed from here on. It's just as well we didn't leave any later." It was on top of them without warning. "Bloody hell!" exclaimed McDonald as the helicopter blasted over them at treetop height. His wife jumped. "What? What's happening, Pete?" "Shit, he was low! He nearly ripped our luggage racks off." "It looked like one of yours." With a puzzled expression. "It can't be." "But it was," insisted his wife. "What are you doing?" "Ringing the base." McDonald used the speed dial on the carphone. "There's something wrong in what I just saw." "How's that, dear?" "Two of our Jetrangers were replaced with Squirrels last year. The third is in the department workshop, unserviceable, waiting on a replacement mini-turbine. Whoever that was, it wasn't ours." The phone answered. "Constable Maltos?" " Mal, this is Pete. The 206 is still in the workshop, isn't it?" "Yeah, of course. Why?" "Well, a 206 in Polair livery nearly took our luggage racks off a minute ago." "You're kidding. Where?" "About twenty miles south of Putty on the Putty road." "You're sure?" "Hell, yeah. Look, Mal, grab a chart and tell me what lies on a bearing of about 225 degrees from our position." "One sec." McDonald waited until Mal returned to the telephone. "Here we are. There's not much. It's mainly national park and mountains. Bathurst, Lithgow and Katoomba are the major population centres." "Okay then, what's on the reciprocal bearing? Where could it have been coming from?" McDonald thought for a moment. "The Jetranger has a radius of operation of about one hundred and fifty nautical miles with full tanks and reserves." "Yeah that's about it," agreed Mal. "Using our position as the centre, that means it would have to take off and land within one hundred and fifty miles of us." "Probably a lot less." "We can rule out public airfields for refuelling. Too risky with that paintjob. Think Mal, what's on the map?" "Well, to the south-west it's the Richmond CTR. The only major towns are the ones I mentioned. Hang on, there's the jail." "That's it!" exclaimed McDonald. "Lithgow Maximum Security Prison. Where are the Squirrels?" "One's on a stand by ready status on the pad out the front, and the other is operating with the Plantation Unit in the Wattagans to your north east." "Okay. The only machine close enough is the one with the Plantation Unit. Contact them, pull them off that job and have them refuel." "What makes you think they're going back that way?" "A hunch. If the jail's the target, they haven't done the pickup, which means they can't head east towards Sydney and risk running into one of us. It's logical it'll try to get back where it took off from, and my guess is the pilot will come out along the same track as he went in." "What do you want the unit to do?" "Have our pilot fly towards where I am now, then work a five-mile-wide picket line towards Lithgow. Tell them what they're looking for and that it'll be low and down in the weeds." "What about radar?" "No, it was way too low, and it won't have its transponder on. After you've contacted our pilot, contact the jail and let them know." "Okay, Sarge." "And Mal, have them stay off the radio. Keep me informed on my car-phone." With that, McDonald hung up. After passing over the power line tower, Jake reset his GPS for a position east of the jail. He kept low, following the contours of the valleys and relying on the global positioning system indicators to guide him in. At times the cloud base was sitting on top of the higher peaks. Jake eyed it with concern, worried that it could descend lower and block his path in or out. Already he was having to thread his way through the lower sections. Drops of rain began to splat against the canopy, turning the perspex opaque before snaking in rivulets towards the edges. The Jetranger rose and fell as it hugged the treetops. He had excluded everything from his head other than the task at hand. So far, his fuel consumption and headwind component had been as calculated. © Trevor Fing
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