Read Online BLOOD GURKHA: Prophesy (James Pace novels Book 5) by Andy Lucas - Free Book Online
Authors: Andy Lucas
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worry about that,’ Hammond said, brushing off the problems facing them with apparent distain. ‘I will need a few hours to make the arrangements.’
‘Good. I am ready to go now,’ replied Pace. ‘When you’ve waved your magic wand and set everything up, come and pick me up and we can get started.’
He clearly had no intention of returning to see Sarah one last time before they left and Hammond understood why. What could he do, after all? Nothing.
It took slightly longer than he anticipated and dawn was beginning to caress a cerise-tinged horizon the following day by the time the two men drove up a shadowy lane, adjacent to a small airfield at Stapleford Abbotts, in the heart of the Essex countryside. Thick hedgerows lined the winding road, shielding the grass airstrip from their view until they reached one of the entrance gates, obligingly standing wide open for them. Pace was driving his Landrover Defender and wasted no time swinging off the road and driving across the grass, following Hammond’s gesturing hand from the passenger seat.
‘Head over to that low building over there,’ Hammond muttered. ‘Kill your lights and take us around to the rear.’
‘That looks like a small hangar,’ said Pace. ‘I assume that’s where we trade wheels for wings?’
Hammond nodded, lost in thought. ‘The doors should be open. Drive straight in. Our contact will be inside, waiting for us.’
‘Probably be Baker,’ Pace smiled wanly.
The airfield was deserted at such an early hour and the long lines of parked light aircraft gave an eerie sensation of a moment that had been frozen in time. No breath of wind stirred the windsock, hanging limply on its white flagpole nearby, as the car eased around the corner of the building and drifted through open double doors, easing to a stop. Pace killed the engine and they both got out of the car.
Inside, several familiar shapes were discernible in the gloom. In the centre of the low building sat the sleek form of one of the McEntire Corporation’s fast Falcon jets. Moving out from the tail, stepping towards them, appeared two friendly faces. Pace recognised them as McEntire’s personal pilots. Both experienced ex-military fliers, on permanent loan from the RAF, Ramsay and Norton had not hesitated when Hammond called them.
‘Welcome gentlemen,’ smiled Ramsay. ‘Are you ready for our executive service?’
‘Is there champagne?’ shot back Hammond. ‘This is going to be a long flight.’
‘Already on ice,’ promised Norton lightly. ‘Get aboard please. We need to be out of here before sunrise. The fewer people that know we were even here, the better.’
‘Are we expecting anyone to try and stop us?’ asked Pace. The grins he received as a reply told him that nobody was going to challenge them as long as they didn’t make their actions obvious.
The plane was the same one that Hammond had caught a ride back in from the Falklands, a few weeks earlier. Plush tan leather seats and cream carpet enveloped Pace and Hammond as the two pilots disappeared into the cockpit. Keeping the lights switched off, the whine of the jet engines eased higher and they were soon trundling out of the open doors at the opposite end of the hangar and lining up on the hard, grassy landing strip.
Not hesitating, Ramsay poured on the power and the small, dart-shaped executive jet roared into the sky, attacking it at a steep angle, turning west as it climbed. The plane settled at its cruising altitude of 39,000 feet within a couple of minutes.
In reality, it was too early for alcohol so Pace and Hammond instead opted for a hot cup of coffee and a cereal bar. Hammond did the honours, expertly working an inbuilt coffee machine in the luxurious aircraft’s tiny galley. The coffee was welcome and strong.
Above a delicate carpet of rolling pink clouds, with a weak sunrise now bathing the Falcon, they were alone in the sky as Ramsay set the most direct course; straight across the Atlantic,
‘Good. I am ready to go now,’ replied Pace. ‘When you’ve waved your magic wand and set everything up, come and pick me up and we can get started.’
He clearly had no intention of returning to see Sarah one last time before they left and Hammond understood why. What could he do, after all? Nothing.
It took slightly longer than he anticipated and dawn was beginning to caress a cerise-tinged horizon the following day by the time the two men drove up a shadowy lane, adjacent to a small airfield at Stapleford Abbotts, in the heart of the Essex countryside. Thick hedgerows lined the winding road, shielding the grass airstrip from their view until they reached one of the entrance gates, obligingly standing wide open for them. Pace was driving his Landrover Defender and wasted no time swinging off the road and driving across the grass, following Hammond’s gesturing hand from the passenger seat.
‘Head over to that low building over there,’ Hammond muttered. ‘Kill your lights and take us around to the rear.’
‘That looks like a small hangar,’ said Pace. ‘I assume that’s where we trade wheels for wings?’
Hammond nodded, lost in thought. ‘The doors should be open. Drive straight in. Our contact will be inside, waiting for us.’
‘Probably be Baker,’ Pace smiled wanly.
The airfield was deserted at such an early hour and the long lines of parked light aircraft gave an eerie sensation of a moment that had been frozen in time. No breath of wind stirred the windsock, hanging limply on its white flagpole nearby, as the car eased around the corner of the building and drifted through open double doors, easing to a stop. Pace killed the engine and they both got out of the car.
Inside, several familiar shapes were discernible in the gloom. In the centre of the low building sat the sleek form of one of the McEntire Corporation’s fast Falcon jets. Moving out from the tail, stepping towards them, appeared two friendly faces. Pace recognised them as McEntire’s personal pilots. Both experienced ex-military fliers, on permanent loan from the RAF, Ramsay and Norton had not hesitated when Hammond called them.
‘Welcome gentlemen,’ smiled Ramsay. ‘Are you ready for our executive service?’
‘Is there champagne?’ shot back Hammond. ‘This is going to be a long flight.’
‘Already on ice,’ promised Norton lightly. ‘Get aboard please. We need to be out of here before sunrise. The fewer people that know we were even here, the better.’
‘Are we expecting anyone to try and stop us?’ asked Pace. The grins he received as a reply told him that nobody was going to challenge them as long as they didn’t make their actions obvious.
The plane was the same one that Hammond had caught a ride back in from the Falklands, a few weeks earlier. Plush tan leather seats and cream carpet enveloped Pace and Hammond as the two pilots disappeared into the cockpit. Keeping the lights switched off, the whine of the jet engines eased higher and they were soon trundling out of the open doors at the opposite end of the hangar and lining up on the hard, grassy landing strip.
Not hesitating, Ramsay poured on the power and the small, dart-shaped executive jet roared into the sky, attacking it at a steep angle, turning west as it climbed. The plane settled at its cruising altitude of 39,000 feet within a couple of minutes.
In reality, it was too early for alcohol so Pace and Hammond instead opted for a hot cup of coffee and a cereal bar. Hammond did the honours, expertly working an inbuilt coffee machine in the luxurious aircraft’s tiny galley. The coffee was welcome and strong.
Above a delicate carpet of rolling pink clouds, with a weak sunrise now bathing the Falcon, they were alone in the sky as Ramsay set the most direct course; straight across the Atlantic,
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