The Network - Jason Elliot [6]
A municipal sign announces the identity of the village I am entering: shobdon. I’ve never heard of it. A few hundred yards beyond, to avoid the buildings that are beginning to cluster ahead, I turn left on a small road which winds almost imperceptibly downhill. Then I break off in the direction of where I saw the plane disappear and keep running on unsurfaced tracks between fields, finding nothing for a further desperate mile. Then, just as I begin to doubt whether this is even the same valley where the plane landed, I glimpse the roof line of some prefabricated buildings and head towards them. A fluttering orange windsock confirms I am in the right place. I creep along the base of the hedge that encloses the airfield and come to a line of white trailers which, judging from their length and strange shape, must contain gliders.
I lie down on my back under one of them and wait for the heaving of my chest to subside. Then I turn in the direction of the airfield buildings to look for any sign of life. There is none. Nothing stirs by the big hangar a hundred yards away. The control tower, which looks more like a shed perched on a twelve-foot-high platform, is empty. In my imagination I see Tom explaining his encounter to the dog handlers, who are probably in the pro-cess of making a succession of phone calls. My close observation lasts only ten minutes but I can’t wait any longer.
There are about a dozen single-engined aircraft parked on the grass alongside the runway, pointing down it. The majority have blue winter covers draped over their canopies like horse blankets, but several are uncovered. Concrete weights or ten-gallon plastic drums are tied to the undersides of the wings as anchors. I can still hear nothing but my own breathing. It’s now or never. I walk with as much confidence as possible from my hiding place and try the doors of the uncovered aircraft in turn. The Piper and the Cessna 172 are locked. The third, a 152 and the aircraft I first learned to fly, is open. Nothing moves by the buildings, and the possibility of success is now making my hands tremble.
I check the fuel in the nearest wing: enough for my purposes. I won’t fly much more than fifty miles. I’ll stay in class G airspace, keep the transponder off, hope there aren’t too many low-flying military fighters on exercise, and head west until I hit the coast and put down in a remote field. Then I’ll find a way to call H, who will get me out of the shit I’m in. A moment later I’m in the cockpit. The ignition switch lacks a key but after some groping under the cowling I have worked free the P-wires to the two magnetos, and bypassed the ignition circuit. I turn the fuel to rich and the carburettor heat to cold. I prime. I open the throttle half an inch. The master switch is on, the brakes off. I need only prop the aircraft manually and remove the tie-downs.
I have to prop the aircraft by hand because I have effectively removed the ignition. It’s the wrong order in which to do things, but I want more than anything to get the engine going first. There is no time for the usual checks. I get out and heave down on the propeller with all my effort: there is a thud and a hiss from the engine.
‘Bitch,’ I hear myself shout.
I heave again. Another thud. And another. On my fifth try there’s a miraculous succession of thuds and muted explosions and the engine bursts into glorious life. The airframe begins to strain forward like a dog at its leash. All that remains is the tie-downs. With a sharp knife I might have cut them off within seconds and been airborne