Permissible Limits

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Authors: Graham Hurley

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REVIEWS FOR GRAHAM HURLEY

 

 

 

‘
First class’

 

Sunday Express

 

 

‘
An eye for character and fluid, intelligent prose’

 

The Times

 

 

‘
As good a read as you will ever get…

A wonderful, wonderful thriller writer’

 

Daily Mirror

 

 

‘
Hurley’s twists and action are electrifying’

 

Daily Telegraph

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Permissible

Limits

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also by Graham Hurley

 

Fiction

Rules
of
Engagement

Reaper

The Devil’s Breath

Thunder in the Blood

Sabbathman

The Perfect Soldier

Heaven’s Light

Nocturne

 

Non-Fiction

Airshow

 

 

Permissible Limits

 

 

 

Graham Hurley

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ORION

Copyright © 1999 Graham Hurley

 

The right of Graham Hurley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright owner

This edition first published in Great Britain in 1999 by Orion An imprint of Orion Books Ltd Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin’s Lane London
WC2H
9EA
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Typeset in Great Britain at The Spartan Press Ltd, Lymington, Hants

 

Printed and bound byClays Ltd, St Ives pic

 

 

 

For Darina and Erik with love

 

 

 

Acknowledgements

My thanks to those individuals whose generosity and knowledge helped make this book possible.

Carolyn Grace, with whom I made a number of films, planted the seed for the idea. Her gutsiness, and her airmanship, have been a constant inspiration and she won’t mind me saying that absolutely none of what follows has any connection with any events in her own life.
Paul Bowen, Director of the Royal International Air Tattoo, opened countless doors in the aviation world. Rod Dean, Mustang pilot extraordinaire, gave me an enormous amount of time and help, as did Bernie Forward, recently of the Air Accidents Investigation Branch. Tony Houghton and Eddie Seagrave of Goodwood Aerodrome offered invaluable advice, while John Tilling, Simon Howells and Andrew Edie explained the mysteries of aviation insurance. Paul Coggan, of Warbirds Worldwide, took a lively interest in the project, as did Brendan Walsh and Norman Chapman of Intrepid Aviation, who introduced me to the glories of the Harvard, the YAK, and a
stripped-down Merlin. My thanks, as well, to Susie Cameron and
Roger Edwards for sharing their memories of life in the Falklands.
My agent, Antony Harwood, and my editor, Simon Spanton, have been unflagging in their support, as has Christina Waugh, a good friend and a shrewd critic. To Bill Flynn, Ellie Bruce and I owe a special debt. He believed in both of us and for his faith this book is all the richer.

Lastly, a huge thank you to my wife, Lin. Wingman is too small a word…

 

 

 

Find the enemy and shoot him down. All else is nonsense.

 

Baron Manfred von Richthofen

Prelude

People who came to say goodbye to Adam always talk about the swans.

We held the memorial service in a lovely little church within sight of the sea. It was a cold March day with fitful sunshine and a bitter wind. After the service, we gathered in groups on the gravel path that led down to the lane. Drifts of early daffodils brightened the shadowed gravestones and I remember how empty the service had seemed without a coffin or a body. The fly-past had been scheduled for half past three. Already, we could hear the Mustang coming.
The aircraft appeared a minute or so later. Harald was at the controls and I could see his face looking down at us as he dipped a wing in salute. Some of us bowed our heads. One or two of the men were weeping. For that single moment, even the wind seemed to stop.
After the Mustang had peeled off to the south, it was quieter again. Conversation seemed somehow pointless. There was nothing to say, nothing to add. We began to walk towards the gate, little black clusters of us, grim-faced, awkward, and it was then that I heard the swans.
They were on exactly the same heading as the aircraft. I saw their shadows first, dancing across the pale stones of the church, then I looked up, catching my breath at their beauty and their grace. There were nine of them in all and they disappeared towards the undercliff and the sea in perfect V formation, untroubled, leaving us to the cold and the single tolling bell.
The memory of those swans has never left me. I can hear the beat and sweep of their wings as I write. Adam, I think, would have loved them.

Chapter one

I got the news about Adam by phone. It was a Thursday afternoon. The builders had been in since Christmas and our latest extension for yet more guest suites was nearly complete. For once, we looked like being ready for the new season.

The nearest phone extension was in the kitchen. A man’s voice I didn’t recognise asked whether I was Mrs Ellie Bruce. Bad news is like a smell. You scent it.

‘
My name’s Clark, Mrs Bruce. I’m a police officer. We’ve had a call from the Distress and Diversion Cell up at West Drayton.’ He paused. ‘Do you know what these people do?’

‘
Of course.’

I bent to the phone, trying to fight the waves of panic. The Distress and Diversion Cell co-ordinate the rescue services when an aircraft gets into trouble.

‘
Sandown have reported your husband overdue,’ the policeman was saying. ‘Jersey booked him out at 10.45.It seems his flightplan gives an ETA of 11.40.’

I did the computations in my head. Sandown is our local airfield, a single grass strip tucked beneath the shoulder of St Boniface Down. Transit time from Jersey to the Isle of Wight in the Cessna Adam had borrowed would be around fifty-five minutes. Eleven forty sounded exactly right.

‘
He hasn’t turned up?’

‘
I’m afraid not.’

I glanced at the big clock on the wall over the sink. Five to four. Adam had phoned only this morning. Weather permitting, he’d promised he’d be back in time for a late lunch, though that - I
knew - could have meant anything.

There was an ominous silence at the other end of the line. I could sense there was worse news to come.

‘
Is your husband an experienced pilot? Do you mind me asking, Mrs Bruce?’

I blinked. Six years in the Fleet Air Arm. Supply work out to the North Sea rigs. Contract after contract in southern Africa. Helicopters. Fixed-wing. Single-engined. Twins. Even, for a couple of months, an ancient DC-3.

‘
He’s got thousands of hours,’ I said, ‘God knows how many.’

‘
And he’s used to flying over water?’

‘
Of course. He does it all the time.’

I was sitting down now. One of the builders gave me an inane grin through the window. Four o’clock was time to put the kettle on.

‘
West Drayton are in the process of reviewing the radar tapes, Mrs Bruce,’ the policeman muffled a cough, ‘and I’m afraid it’s not looking brilliant.’

‘
What isn’t?’

It was a stupid question. I’d once paid a visit to the Distress and Diversion Cell, a small, darkened, busy room at the main air-traffic control centre near Heathrow. There’s a big display screen on one wall and smaller consoles facing it. The guys behind the consoles can pinpoint an aircraft to within a couple of hundred metres, anywhere in UK airspace. Impressive, unless you happen to be on the end of a conversation like this.

‘
What’s happened? What did they see?’

‘
Apparently your husband’s aircraft was carrying a transponder.’

‘
Of course.’

‘
Would you happen to know what it was squawking? They’re saying seven thousand.’

I had my eyes shut, trying to visualise the big wall display. A transponder is a little radio transmitter carried on board an aircraft. It sends out a coded four-digit signal which registers as a trace on the radar screen; 7000 is the code you enter in transit when your aircraft
is no longer receiving an air-traffic service. The people in the Distress
Cell were right. Once he’d left Jersey’s air-traffic control zone, Adam’s transponder should definitely have been squawking 7000.

‘
So what happened?’ I asked again.

‘
Seven thousand’s off the plot.’

‘
When? When did it happen?’

‘
Exactly?’

‘
Yes, please.’

‘
Hang on. I wrote it down.’

The builder had given up with the tea. He was back beside the big window in the extension, his shirt tail flapping in the wind. I watched him slopping primer on the frame, my mind a complete blank. Adam couldn’t have just disappeared. Not the way this man was saying. He was far too clever, far too wily. My old fox. My young cub.

‘
Eleven twelve.’

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