Authors: Chris James
Pilot’s train journey to Falmouth, which had started on a note of high excitement, soon became infected by an equivalent measure of loneliness, brought on by the knowledge that from now on everyone, bar the five crew he’d already met, would be a stranger. Every emotion took it in turn to share the carriage with him: exhilaration; regret; fear; excitement; wonder; and disbelief. Materially, he had managed to fit everything he needed into a single medium sized rolling suitcase, and this he propped up on the seat next to him – two travelling companions heading for a destination no man or suitcase had ever set foot or wheel on before. He had gone round to Jenny’s studio to apologise for not being able to attend the opening of her exhibition the following week and to say goodbye. They had hugged wordlessly for five minutes. “Enjoy Australia,” she had said at the door. “And write to me.”
In his hotel that night, Pilot’s final reverie before falling asleep was an image of Llewellyn Martin darning his socks by candlelight in his new home.
Pilot had asked to be woken at six, but this wasn’t necessary. At five-thirty he was already dressed and pacing his room waiting for a reasonable hour to check out. He likened himself to a sixties astronaut, carrying one of those small silver suitcases to the lauchpad for his flight into the unknown.
Pilot reached the marina at quarter to eight. It felt as if his heart were trying to fight its way out of his ribcage and he thought neither the heart nor the cage would last another hour. There were over a hundred boats moored up and it took him ten minutes to locate the
Polcrebo
, resting at the furthest quay. She must have been sixty years old if she were a day and looked only just seaworthy.
A few minutes later two figures appeared from the wheelhouse and called over to Pilot. From his files, he recognized them as Jack Highbell and Jason Budd. Both had studied social psychology at the London School of Economics, but had dropped out after two years. They had also been recent cell mates in Dartmoor Prison, having served an eighteen month sentence for arson. The owner of the boat they’d set fire to in Brixham harbor was a cocaine dealer who Highbell maintained was responsible for the ruin of his sister. Through lack of solid evidence, English law had been unable to touch him, so ‘Devonian law’ had been invoked.
The two men were typical of the majority of Pilot’s cre
w−
apostates and militants, not by inclination, but through necessity. It was wise heads, not chips, they had on their shoulders. The mysterious but inspiring Forrest Vaalon had had little trouble signing up Highbell and Budd for the voyage. They, and 78 of their crewmates, had no idea of their true destination, only that they were answerable to Lonnie Pilot, who was to be in charge of the experiment. They helped him onto the confined deck, where nine other crew stood compressed, shoulder to shoulder. Macushla Mara, Jane Lavery and Josiah Billy squeezed forward and greeted Pilot with hugs and hand shakes.
It was crowded on the old boat, but at least there was no baggage to accommodate. Everything but hand luggage had already been sent to Hull and stowed away on
Ptolemy
before her run down to Falmouth. Three miles offshore, the ocean-going barge carrying 24 further crew awaited
Polcrebo’s
arrival. The others would be joining them at the Bay of Biscay rendezvous.
Pilot made his way to the launch’s stern and watched the white, foamy ribbon between the marina and
Polcrebo’s
churning propellors lengthen. The weather was warm and there was a heat haze, so it wasn’t long before Pendennis Point and Cornwall and Britain and Pilot’s whole life up to this hour had dissolved from view.
He looked around to see what the others were doing. Highbell was glued to the compass in the wheelhouse. Budd stood on top of the cabin roof combing the horizon with a pair of binoculars, while another man kept his ear to an engine which wasn’t sounding at all healthy. Josiah Billy caught Pilot’s eye and made a grimace.
“I hope you brought your tools, Josiah,” Pilot said.
“A bottle opener’s all I need, mate. I don’t do engines.”
“There she is,” Budd shouted some time later. It took a while for ‘her’ to come within the scope of the naked eye and the first thing Pilot saw was a white dot on the horizon reflecting sunlight through the haze. As they got nearer, a dark smudge appeared underneath the white one. Then the entire image resolved itself into the identifiable shapes of ocean-going barge below jumbo jet.
“What the fuck?” someone said.
Although most of the passengers remained slack-jawed at the sight before them, when they reached
Ptolemy
, they knew exactly what to do. Ropes were being passed between
Polcrebo
and the barge by busy hands and soon the two vessels – one small, wooden and rotten, the other huge, steel and refurbished – were being pulled together. Aaron Serman, who had been aboard
Ptolemy
for two weeks, threw down a rope ladder.
As Pilot crested the rail, he got a clearer picture of the barge’s strange appendage. It wasn’t a whole jumbo jet, merely the front quarter of the fuselage, attached to the deck of the barge by eight hydraulic suspension columns. He walked around the plugged rear of the plane to a fixed ladder leading up to a small platform at the plane’s forward door. “Come on up,” Serman said. Pilot followed him up the ladder into the interior of the jumbo where a dozen rows of seats spanned two aisles. “There’s secure seating for 56 here and 30 upstairs.”
They climbed a narrow spiral staircase to the plane’s second deck where the bulkheads had been removed all the way to the cockpit. “The generator is in the cargo hold and feeds the aircon, lighting etcetera,” Serman continued. “There are four digicams – one in the nose, two either side and one mounted at the back.” They stepped into what used to be the jumbo’s lounge. A single chair was positioned in front of a bank of monitors and other instruments. “The cameras are controlled from here.”
“Toilets?”
“At the back. Both decks.”
They finished their tour of the fuselage and entered the body of the barge, where Pilot was shown storerooms, cabins, toilets, shower rooms and a state-of-the-art galley adjoining a spacious mess room. Everywhere, the smell of fresh paint and yacht varnish hung thick in the air.
The sea was as flat as a snooker table and the transfer of personnel to the barge proceeded without incident. Just before leaving the launch, Budd walked over to Pilot. “Do you think she’ll fly, Lonnie?” he joked.
Pilot gazed up at the massive white fuselage of the jumbo – majestic, yet ludicrous – and at the contrastingly un-aerodynamic barge below it. “Looks sound enough to me.”
Only Highbell remained on the launch. Pilot watched him go below, return a moment later and climb the rope ladder to join him. “How long will it take?” Pilot asked.
“Less than ten minutes,” Highbell said.
The entire complement watched in silence as the scuttled
Polcrebo
was slowly pulled into the sea to finally disappear, leaving only oily rainbows and floating debris in the space she’d once occupied.
“This feels the same as when I left Sydney,” Josiah Billy said to Mara.
“Not Dublin?”
“No. Australia is my real home. Never felt that until now. There’s no going back, I guess. You going to miss Ireland, Macushla?”
Mara thought for minute. “Like you said, there’s no going back.”
Pilot sized up the chaotic scene around him and noted that order was being restored by some of the crew who seemed to know what they were doing. Leaving them to it, and taking one last glance at the nebulous coast in the distance, he followed Serman down the companionway into
Ptolemy’s
belly to his cabin. It was spartan, but five star compared to his net shed.
An hour later, Serman took Pilot to the bridge to meet the barge master. “Captain Turner, we’re ready for takeoff,” Pilot said.
Turner laughed. “Let’s see if we can get this plane of yours to fly.” By this time, everyone knew that the jumbo jokes were running a bit thin, and Turner’s was the last of them. Soon, there was a noticeable feeling of forward movement as
Ptolemy
began to plod through the water.
The lookout came running in with news of a visitor just before they heard it for themselves. A helicopter was flying about fifty feet above the water on a line directly towards them, and as it passed overhead Pilot could make out the Coastguard insignia on its fuselage. He could also see a pair of sunglasses peering down from the cockpit as the twenty tons of metal hurdled them.
The helicopter began a steep turn ahead prior to making another pass. This time it carried on past
Ptolemy
towards a small boat following them at a distance before disappearing from view. “
That’s
the visitor I meant, not the Sikorsky,” the lookout said to Pilot. “It’s an RHIB. Rigid-hulled inflatable boat – the Coastguard uses them.”
A frightening thought occurred to Pilo
t−
that they would be shadowed all the way to their landing site by the French and British navies, which would then get beached alongside the flotilla and thereby have every right to plant the Tricolor and Union Jack on Eydos alongside their own. It was a scenario that had never entered his head.
He was relieved when, an hour later, the lookout reported that the RHIB had u-turned and was heading home. Pilot was only half pleased with this news. The Coastguard might lose interest once they had left UK territorial waters, but
Ptolemy
was now heading straight for France, a nation Pilot viewed as the bigger threat of the two.
“There should be nothing to draw undue attention to ourselves when we enter French waters,” Turner said, “apart from the jumbo on our deck. As far as they’re concerned, our destination is Lisbon.”
Pilot scanned the horizon. Behind and to either side of them the sea was empty, but ahead it was a different story. It was as if they were driving down a small country lane approaching a motorway at right angles, because as far as the eye could see, vessel upon vessel plied one of the busiest sea lanes in the world. It took them just under an hour to cross the road. Later, at a point level with Ushant, Turner picked up an urgent shipping warning being broadcast on at least five different frequencies. Pilot settled down to listen.
‘
...
make
for
the
nearest
haven
immediately
.
Severe
wave
activity
can
be
expected
if
the
tremors
continue
.
The
epicenter
of
this
latest
disturbance
is
the
Bay
of
Biscay
at
latitude
Ferrol
,
longitude
Nantes
.
All
shipping
in
sea
areas
FitzRoy
,
Biscay
,
Sole
,
Plymouth
,
Shannon
,
Fastnet
and
Lundy
are
advised
to
make
for
the
nearest
safe
haven
.
Ports
on
the
French
west
coast
,
Spanish
north
coast
,
and
the
south
coasts
of
England
and
Ireland
are
considered
to
be
at
risk
.
Shipping
now
on
course
for
the
danger
zone
should
remain
outside
the
sea
areas
mentioned
until
further
notice
.
We
repeat
this
urgent
warning
to
all
shipping
.
Severe
seismic
activity
in
the
Bay
of
Biscay
is
pushing
up
seas
potentially
hazardous
to
shipping
in
sea
areas
FitzRoy
,
Biscay
... ‘