Vince Book four

By Eric Bray

Further misadventures of Vince, George, Trev, and Pete, as they try to enjoy their quiet life.
More ship-wrecks, more diving, more gang warfare, and the return of A.A. and the O'Hoolihans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Bray
• Release date: Dec 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466174184

Eric Bray

Born in 1950, after school,I served my country in the Royal Navy, the least said about which the better. Since then I have made plastic drain-pipes, driven a fork truck, worked as a courier in the multi-drop rip-off game, and for the last two years have watched a conveyor belt going around. I have now achieved retirement. I began writing for amusement during my lunch-breaks, and rose to the challenge of becoming published when I commented on a book I had purchased, saying something along the lines of - "I could do better than that!" - when someone said - "Go on, then!" My other hobbies are scuba-diving, designing, building, and flying radio-controlled model aircraft, ham radio, photography, and avoiding gardening.

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Vince book four

Published by Eric Bray at Smashwords

copyright 2011 Eric Bray

Disclaimer.

This collection of writings is purely a work of fiction.

One or two of the businesses mentioned, which take no significant or active part in the plot, are genuine, as are similar geographical locations. They are included merely for authenticity.

All characters and events are entirely a figment of my imagination, and as such, bear no intended resemblance to any person, dead, living, or not yet created, or event from the past, present, or future.

Finally - my apologies to the People of Anglesey, for the liberties I have taken with their country, their language, and place names.

Chapter------------title

1------------------Dinghy

2------------------Joan’s place.

3------------------The Party.

4------------------Spring.

5------------------Trouble.

6------------------O’Hoolihan’s bar.

7------------------Vince and Pete.

8------------------Bangor and Holyhead.

9------------------Anglesey.

10----------------The New Man.

11----------------Beginning, and Aftermath.

12----------------AA.

13----------------Honshu Maru

14----------------The Man

15----------------Last bit.

16----------------Wheels within wheels.

Chapter one.

Dinghy.

The wind-blown air-filled orange ring swooped sickeningly down the back of an icy-cold, green, Irish-sea wave, twirling lazily round as it went, because one side was heavier than the other. It was weighed down by the man who lay limply in the bottom of the life raft. He, a few gallons of captured water, and a bit of puke, flopped about as the ring reached the bottom of the water valley, then started up the front slope of the next. Gravity, and the wind, twizzled them round again.

He glared dully at the SARBE beacon, its little orange light glowing in the half-light of dawn. Bloody useless thing! He thought. He was too parched to vocalise it. Vaguely, confused, in the mid-range of hypothermia, he wished the sun would rise, to warm him, and at the same time, hoped it wouldn’t, because it baked what little moisture there was left in his body - out. He hoped it would rain, so he could catch some drinkable water, and hoped it would not, because he was cold enough!

Over the top, he swooped, spinning giddily round, then down the next, spin, up, spin, down, spin. People paid a small fortune to be treated like this at a fairground, but their punishment stopped after five minutes. He had been going down round, and up, ever since yesterday afternoon, when his Cherokee’s engine had quit, part-way between Ronaldsway and Halfpenny Green.

Ha! Silly bugger! He cursed himself, at the memory of the sudden CRUNCH! Then the silence, as something important inside the Lycoming engine broke. He recalled looking at the accusing finger of the propeller blade poking up at an odd angle towards the sky as an assortment of red lights appeared on his instrument panel. Shocked into mind-freeze, he sat there for long, uncounted seconds. The autopilot had struggled to maintain height and course, as it was set to do, but without power, the speed of the aircraft rapidly reduced to the point where the wing would relinquish its tenuous hold on the air, let go, and allow the aeroplane to fall towards the earth. It began to fall, an assemblage of aluminium, plastic and rubber, one man, two pairs of socks, a spare pair of underpants, and a credit card.

Up until this moment, from the cough-crunch! was the mental shouted protest of NO! It can’t DO that! The sudden raucous honking of the stall-warning horn stirred a few brain-cells into creaking life. Rule one, fly the ‘plane! He reached over, moving as through immersed in treacle, and switched off the autopilot. His other hand pressed the half-wheel, with its ‘Piper’ logo on the central boss, forwards. The horn silenced itself with a final strangled squawk, and the juddering shudder of the pre-stall buffet became the fluting whistle of air flowing over a wing, again.

Rule two. Select a field! Ha! He had a choice of water, or water, or water. His mind rambled on through the litany hammered into him by his Instructor, when was it? Look out for trees, power lines, hedges, fences, ditches, people, tall crops, short crops, ploughed -–yes, ploughed. Perhaps that was best, imagine he was landing on ploughed ground. Where’s the wind? Look for smoking chimneys! The voice continued. What chimneys?

Tell someone! The voice continued. He remembered grabbing for the microphone, and gabbling his predicament into it until his lungs were empty, to no avail. In his haste, he had pulled the curly black wire from the plug. He’d thrown the useless microphone onto the floor. Now what? He watched the water get nearer to his feet. Hell! The I.F.F. transponder! He reached for the knobs, then froze again. In his panic, he had forgotten the code for 'distress, no radio'. Fuck it! He dialled in 0999, then switched it from stand-by, to active. It took a minute, then the radio crackled –Aircraft west of Anglesey, squawking 999, do you require assistance, over?"

Yes I bloody do! He yelled at the unresponsive instrument panel.

Aircraft squawking 999, do you – er, if you require assistance, squawk 7700, over!

He clicked to stand-by, dialled in 7700 on the four knobs, with the four corresponding little windows, then back to active again.

After a short pause, a new voice came over the radio. "This is LATSIE, aircraft squawking 7700, qsy to 121 decimal fife, and squawk 7711, over.

He did nothing, watching the sea grow nearer, and lumpier.

Distress aircraft, if you have electrical failure, squawk 7712, if you have engine failure, squawk 7713, over.

The man clicked 7713.

LATSIE, we have you tracking 260 at about sixty knots, is that correct, over, sorry if that is correct, squawk 7700, over.

He clicked 7700.

Roger, now squawk 770, and the number of engines on your aeroplane.

The man pondered that. Did LATSIE, the radar operator in the distress and diversion centre located near Hounslow, in Middlesex, mean the number of engines fitted, or the number that worked? He left the I.F.F. squawking 7700, no engines.

This is LATSIE, I understand you are gliding. Squawk 770 and the number of non-working engines on your aeroplane, over.

He dialled 7701, and prepared to get very wet.

"Roger, single engine. You are not showing a height indication. Squawk your height in hundreds of feet, over.

The man glanced at his barometric altimeter, then dialled 0001. After that, he pulled the door latch, and wedged his airways map into the jamb, so the door could not jam if the frame distorted when he hit.

Ah, this is LATSIE Good luck, chum. I’ve scrambled the nearest SAR Chopper. Pull your straps real tight. Land along the waves, on top of one if you can, flaps down, gear up, and if you can, jettison your canopy. If you have time, and a dinghy, squawk 7722, over!

The pilot dialled 7722, then eased the nose of the Cherokee round a little, watching the waves, picking his spot. - - - - NOW! He chose his wave, and -–the one before it grabbed his non-retractable left main wheel, dragging the Cherokee down and to the left.

The man in the dinghy drifted off into a concussed, hypothermic delirium, again.

Will you keep still! He told his wife off as she heaved again in their bed, jouncing him about until his head was spinning.

Aark! She replied, and then transformed herself into a Black-headed Gull which flapped inelegantly away when he waved. The orange bed leaned over again, and twizzled crazily round on its castors, like a seat on the Waltzer fairground ride. He peered blearily at the orange duvet cov- then memory returned with a thump that made his head pound. Bollocks! he croaked through his salt-caked throat. Vague memories of his submarine with wings on drifted disjointedly through his brain. It had splashed down like a big spear, and gone straight down. He thought submarines were supposed to flo- or was that aeroplanes in water? No. Only seaplanes go in water. His delirious mind rambled off again.

His Cherokee had hit sideways, and because it was heavily loaded, had sunk almost immediately, the fuselage flooding through the jammed-open door. He, being tightly strapped in, had gone with it, safely belted into his aluminium anchor. It had been getting quite dark outside when he got the straps undone and fought his way out. He didn’t remember dragging the dinghy out, but obviously had, somehow.

His fingers explored the matted hair on the back of his head, starting a fire burning in the wound where something had tried to decapitate him in the impact.

Up the wave, round, over, round, down, round. He flopped about as the trembling rubber skin, and gravity, dictated. He decided it was not a good idea to keep poking the hole in his head. Just what I needed! He laughed at his own joke, and then choked on the salt in his throat.

Gradually, the sun cranked itself up the sky, and began to roast him. He didn’t notice, though. He’d drifted off again.

Some time later, he came to, irritated by the whine of a big yellow mosquito that was preparing to bite him. He swatted at it feebly, and told it to push off, as he had no blood to spare! The whine receded

His skin was sore where the salt had dried into hundreds of tiny lenses, focussing the rays into tiny spots of burning pain.

Now there was a yellow dragonfly buzzing around him. He watched its wings sparkling in the bright sunlight. You’ve come too soon! He choked. I’m not cooked, yet!

There was a spider dangling from the dragonfly on a long thin thread. It had one big oval eye that kept winking at him, as it came down. The spider had shiny black skin, with a red stripe along its legs, and funny feet, like a ducks.

Ha! Y’ can’t fool me! He jeered, You’re a water-spider!

It had an orange patch on its chest, too, almost the same colour as his duvet. It plopped into the pool a few yards away, blew a fountain of water from its mouth tube, then splashed up to him, to where he couldn’t see it, because the bed side was in the way. The dragonfly was still there, though, dangling its thread. A jet of water squirted up as the spider breathed again, right next to his bed. Thar she blows, Cap’n Ahab! Why did he say that, he wondered, smiling at his own dry wit. Dry, yes, he was parched. He waited for it to bite him. A shiny black leg was flung over the edge of his bed, groping for him. Instead, its claws found a grip on a length of rope that hung in loops around the inside of his circular bed. Another leg came over, one with a duck-foot on it. The bed lurched and swayed, then the one-eyed head appeared. Its mouth tube was folded round and back, out of the way. Following the head came the shiny black body, long and thin. He vaguely remembered spiders having short, round, bodies. Another leg with a duck-foot appeared, and then it flopped into the bed with him with a soggy splosh in the captive water that was slopping about.

The spider, still trailing its thread over the side, sat up and spoke to him. Are you hurt anywhere, Pal?

Bug’roff, ‘m no’ dead yet! He husked at it.

I should hope not! You’re worth more if you’re still kicking!

Kick y’ over side if y’ come near! the man warned, Y’ no’ gonna eat me!

Eat you? The spider chuckled at the thought. No, I’m here to save you!

Save m’ f’r later? No’ ‘ungry yet?

Hungry? I’m starving. We’ve been looking for you since dawn.

More’n one. Gonna share me? Leg each?

The spider reached out, and clicked the SARBE beacon off.

Ere! Leave alone! It’s for – for -. What was it for? He couldn’t remember.

You don’t need it, now. The spider caught his arm as he tried to switch it on again, then saw his head wound. Let me see that. He turned the man’s head, gently, in two hands, peering carefully at the gleam of white bone peeking through the matted mess. His fingers probed gently, carefully. Hmm, I don’t think it’s broken, just a nasty gash. Did something hit you?

The spider looped a tangle of webbing around the man, under his arms, round his chest, and under his groin, bundling him up firmly. That’s it, you can’t get away, now! He clipped the webbing to his own, somehow, and then wrapped a few legs around the man, joining them together.

Vince looked up, saw that the winch-man was watching for his signal, held up a hand, and made a twirling sign in the air with a finger. Slowly, the line came taut, and then as the dinghy fell away down the next valley, they were plucked from its clammy grasp, and twirled around in the air, dripping water from their clothing.

The Sea-King pilot, one eye on the balefully flashing ‘low fuel’ warning light, fed power and cyclic pitch, heading for home before the winch-man had hauled the rescuer, and the rescued, in. There were times to follow procedure, and times to ignore it! They left the dinghy to be captured by the fishing boat that was plodding wearily towards it, at its best speed, after spending the whole night searching. It was a bare mile away when the Helo spotted the raft in the choppy water.

With the two men inside, the winch-man waved to the trawler crew as they passed, making a throat-cut sign as they accelerated, then slid the door to, shutting out the wind, cold, and noise. A heater on the wall blasted hot air, making the rescued man's clothes steam, as the winch-man, who was also a medic, began working on the wound.

Vince kept out of the way, putting the harness, and other odds and ends, away in cabinets, where they belonged.

Harry, Paul, Steve, and Vince, after shutting down the Sea-King, and handing over the rescued man to the waiting ambulance, shambled over to the flying mess, where uniform was not required dress, and flopped into over-stuffed easy chairs. They dumped their helmets, and other odds and ends, onto the carpet, and relaxed.

Vince looked around the empty room. Is no-one else back, yet?

They must be! Or they’ve landed out Paul wiped his face on a ‘borrowed’ bar-cloth. We only just made it, on the fumes. When we flared above the ‘H’, the port engine fuel-flow meter zeroed.

Yeah! We heard the auto-igniters chattering! Steve, the winch-man, acknowledged. We nearly jumped out and ran for it!

Why? There wasn’t enough fuel left to cause a fire! Harry turned to the barman. Four coffees, please, twice!

Sir.

And a plate of sarnies, - each!

Ham, egg, or cheese, Sir?

Yes, thanks!

They were just getting started when a minion found them. The Boss wants you in his office. In uniform, carry your hats!

Damn! spat Harry, with venom.

Do you know the cost of a fully fitted Sea-King? The Boss asked, his voice icy.

Er, not -.

Silence when I am speaking! Of course you don’t! And do you care? – No! The Boss answered himself. One machine costs more than you will earn in the rest of your careers!

With respect, Sir Vince carefully pointed out. I’m a civilian, and a volunteer. I don’t get paid anything!

If looks could kill, he would be a nuclear ground zero for that. Steve successfully stifled a giggle.

Put that grin off your face, boy! The Boss noted the tiny twitch at the corners of Steve’s mouth, and then returned his glare to Harry. Are you aware of how much useable fuel remained in the tanks of your aircraft, Davies? Shut your mouth! You were going to say – enough, - weren’t you?

No, Sir.

No, you didn’t, or no, you weren’t? The Boss demanded, his hands were palm down on the desk, as he half leaned on it, partly seated, partly standing.

Sir. No, I wasn’t, Sir.

Then what would you have said?

Sufficient, Sir.

The Boss made a noise like an erupting geyser. You think it funny, do you? He picked up a glass fuel-strainer jug from the desktop. You see this? About half an inch of fuel slopped about in the bottom of the jug. This much! Less than one hundred cubic centimetres, or fifteen seconds of flying time! He glared at them, in turn. What do you say now?"

As I said, Sir. Sufficient! Harry replied. We landed with the engines running. What was I supposed to do, throw him a note saying, ’Sorry, back in two hours?’ - Sir!

They waited in silence, Harry aware that he had gone too far, this time.

The Boss stared back, his face turning an interesting purple hue. Get out of here, while you can!

The three Officers saluted, Vince nodded, and they made a rapid exit.

Davies!

Harry went back in. Sir?

Well done! Get the hell out of my sight! The Boss watched the door close, and then looked at the fuel that had splashed onto his desk. Get out of that one! He muttered to himself. The lucky sod was right!

The four went back to their interrupted very late breakfast, knowing the matter would go no further. The Boss was right. Harry agreed, We pushed that one to the very edge.

What do you mean, We? Steve queried. You were driving!

Was I?

Outside, an engine began screech-howling as it was started up, prior to a flight to somewhere.

I don’t recognise that! Vince peered out of a condensation-covered window. It’s not a Hawk. He opened a fire-door to see better, ignoring shouts of ‘Shut that door!’ Aha! I spy a foreigner!

Steve peered over his shoulder. Oh, one of those Eurofighter copies, a Rafale. I’ve heard that they’re pretty hot stuff. Several other aircrews had emerged from their hidey-holes at the strange engine sounds. I didn’t know there were so many bodies around!"

They stood watching as the Rafale taxied out, then lined up on the runway. It blasted off along the strip, trailing vortices from its wingtips and fin top, and then lifted up into the wet air. Slowly, deliberately, the pilot rolled inverted, then continued with his standard departure with the wheels on top. They folded away, and then he pushed through into the vertical, and arrowed up into the low clag.

Arsehole! Harry muttered. I’d like to see him eject if the engine quit! Too late, Paul nudged him. What? – Oh, Jeez, Sorry, Vince, I didn’t mean-.

Not too far back, George, Vince’s wife, an Instructor, had ejected from a low-flying Hawk, with a student frozen on the controls in the front cockpit as they headed straight for Holyhead mountain. Even more recently, another Instructor, and Vince and George’s friend, Chris, had had a similar experience, when she and her student hit a stray, illicit, hang-glider, down in the Valleys.

Sorry, I’d forgotten – Harry tried again to repair the faux pas.

It’s ok, Harry, but I don’t see how you could. You went out to pick up the pieces!

It wasn’t her turn, that time.

Not like that poor sod at Mona, last month. Flipped a Pitts on landing, and didn’t get a scratch. He broke his neck when he undid his straps and fell onto his head!

Hey! Our food is getting cold! They began a rush for the sandwiches they’d had to abandon, earlier. Did you know that guy we picked up thought Vince was a spider, coming down for his lunch?

Well, Vince IS pretty thin, and gangly!

He’s not thin, he’s dyslexic!

That’s anorexic, you dope! Harry pulled Steve out of the doorway by his collar, to make room.

It’s not his fault he can’t spell!

Vince elbowed Harry out of the way. I just don’t sit around on my backside, all day, like you three!

Outside, another engine began making howl-screech noises.

Over near Trearddur Bay, on the campsite known as The Valley of the Rocks because of its location, the holidaying campers were stirring. Many, the diver fraternity, were long-gone, rising at the first sparrow-cough, in the hope of being the first on their preferred diving site, before the rest arrived to stir up the all pervading silt which would hang in a milky haze in the water for hours afterwards. Also, if they wanted to go deep, onto one of the many wreck sites that abounded, biological requirements meant that to get two dives in, to justify the fuel burned getting out to the site, they had to start early. This would allow a break of several hours on the surface, while excess nitrogen, the end result of breathing compressed air, was expelled from their bodies. Failure to allow time for this was courting disaster, and usually, death.

Thus, the other partners, the casual divers, and the ordinary tourists, of various sexes, were left in peace. Their slumbers were only disturbed by the brassy ‘honk!’ of the wild pheasants living in the adjacent scrub, and the crackling roar of passing jet-planes. As an aside to this paragraph, should you happen to mention camp-sites, and pheasants, to Vince or George, or their friends Pete and Trevor, you would be met by gales of laughter. Why? That’s a previous story!

Amongst the happy campers were a group of kayak paddlers, a few hikers, a ‘twitcher’ and his long-suffering wife, a plane spotter or two, and all the other range of offbeat hobbyists who could possibly find a reason for being there.

Much the same scene was being enacted around the many camp-sites scattered around the county, as today was the first day of the ‘Silly Season’, the first Bank Holiday of the year, when all the campers, the caravanners, and the bed-and-breakfast society descended on the coastline, in the hope of getting enough suntan in three days to last them until the next break. It was also the time when the various rescue services were stretched beyond breaking point with call-outs ranging from lost hikers, to wind-surfers who had forgotten how to turn round and were well on the way to America, mislaid divers, climbers who had fallen off, air-bed jockeys who were being taken on a tour of the coastline by the tide and current, round through Orienteering fanatics whose GPS battery had died, to people trapped on sand bars when the tide came in, or occasionally, went out from under their boat.

Over the next two or three hours, they trickled into the towns and villages, in search of the trademark junk mementos, all with the carefully hidden script, ‘made in Korea’ - (or China), in tiny lettering. Tourist detritus that kept the towns and villages alive during the long winter, by the huge summer sales and equally huge mark-up from the price the peasants earned when they assembled and painted them, for the local equivalent of a dollar a box, carefully copying the spelling of place-names they couldn’t pronounce, and certainly had never seen, from their sheds, and one room shacks, where the whole family was employed in the manufacture of the items.

Then, slurping at the fast-melting coloured water sold as ice-cream, the tourists filtered down to the beaches, and the waiting hot-dog vendors.

On the sand, or pebbles, depending on where they were, they dumped their bags of trophies, and assembled finger-guillotine metal folding chairs, or went through improbable combinations of contortions with the three moving parts that comprise a deck-chair, until they hit on the correct method of assembly. Seating arranged, they blew/pumped up the lilo’s, toy dinghies, and plastic ducks, to keep the offspring more or less quiet, then concentrated on seeing how red they could make their skins go before it rained. They draped on or over their solar-reflecting air-beds, or beach towels, and forgot about little Jimmy, or Jenny, who promptly toddled off, and got screaming lost, ten yards from MAMAAAA!

The teenagers played en-mass football until they dropped from heat exhaustion, and then sneaked a quick fag, a bottle of lager, or a feel, while Dad was snoring and Mum was looking for the rug-rat who had wandered off again, while the eight-year-olds set sail for America on their plastic ducks, thus keeping the Inshore Rescue Service busy rounding them all up and taking them to the First Aid Post for the parents to – hopefully - reclaim.

Three times more, this day, the SAR was called out, and twice cancelled after starting the search in the guesstimated area. Call-out number three came just as they were settling on the ‘H’ pad at Valley, so they did a ‘hot’ refuel, with the engines running, the rotors turning. Then they went clattering off again, low level around the coast, heading west, then round South Stack lighthouse, then to the cliffs between North Stack and Holyhead, in response to reports that a hiker had fallen off the top, from a sheep-track he had been following. Once in the area, they slowed down, and followed the line of the cliff about a hundred yards out, hoping to spot a crowd gathered at the top, in the likely spot. There was nothing, so they reversed course, and flew along again, close in, studying the cliff face, and the breaker line at its foot.

Harry watched for kamikaze seagulls, while Paul, with Steve peering over his shoulder, scanned the cliff. Vince sat in the open doorway, his legs dangling outside, gazing out to sea. On this run, he was on the wrong side. They trickled all the way back to South Stack light, and then reversed again. After about ten minutes, Vince yelled at the intercom, Hold it! He groped for his binoculars, which were dangling around his neck on their strap, and studied the area where he’d seen a flicker of movement. The lenses showed a lot of jagged rock, but nothing else. Back up ten feet or so. He asked, hoping for a different angle. Up ten, and right ten. Perhaps he’d get a better view vertically above. There! Got something. Back twenty. – Bit more. – Now ease me in, as close as you can get.

Got to watch the ring vortex. Harry reminded him. There’s no wind to disperse it.

Any further right, and the rotor tips will have friction burns! Paul commented, as he watched the tiny gap between the tips and the cliff.

Vince leaned back, and pulled out a hand-held spotlight, which he switched on, then aimed the beam down into the shadow where the object lay. There’s something -, he muttered. It’s a bloody plastic bag stuck in a bush, flapping in the rotor downwash! He leaned in and sighed. Ok, H, left hand down a bit, and try again! He felt the floor tilt beneath him as Harry inched them away from the cliff edge.

Take her a minute, Paul.

I have. Paul wiggled the controls gently to indicate he had them.

Harry rolled his seat back, then stretched, and mopped his face with a piece of cloth he kept for polishing the inside of the glazing. Whew, I'm hot!

Getting old, or nerves? Paul took them out a safe distance, and then started them drifting along the cliff again.

Neither, you cheeky sod! The sun’s shining in on my side of the greenhouse!

And I thought it was all the booze that made your nose look like a ripe tomato!

Harry faked a monster punch at Paul’s head. You’ll pay for that remark, later!

What remark?

Vince, did you hear him?

Sorr----ter-----kin—p! Vince clicked his mic button on and off as he spoke.

Steve?

Steve gave no sign that he’d heard anything at all.

Steve? Harry tried again, hoping to keep the banter going a while longer.

Steve gazed through the open door, feigning the sudden onset of deafness. Then he started, and prodded Vince. There, on the cliff-top, two bod’s waving!

Got ‘em!

Vince studied the two on the cliff through his binoculars. I think they’re just waving hello, I can’t see anything, and they don’t seem distressed. He switched to studying the cliff below them. I can’t see anything!

Ok, Vince. I’ll put her down on the top, and you can leap out and ask if they’ve seen anything. I have, Paul. Harry took the controls and jiggled them.

You have. Paul relinquished them.

Harry took them up, over the edge, and found a clear spot a few yards away. Vince picked up a walkie-talkie, switched it on, and said Testing?

Fives.

Likewise. Won’t be a minute.

Florrie and me were out, enjoying the fresh air. We had been walking for about half an hour since leaving the hotel we were staying at in Holyhead. As we usually did, we looked at the gardens in the town, then the wild plants in the hedges and along the side of the road, until we took the foot-way. There wasn’t much to see except gorse, bracken, and heather, mixed in with the grass. Then this big machine came flapping along, scaring away the butterflies and the birds. It went past in the direction we’d come from. A bit later, it came back, and passed us again, howling and clattering along. Off round the corner it went, towards the lighthouse, and then it turned, and came back again, very low down, and close in. We could see someone sitting in a doorway in its side, looking at us through lenses. Florrie waved at them to go away and play silly buggers somewhere else, as we couldn’t hear anything except the noise it was making. Instead, it came closer, and then plonked down, squashing an orchid we’d seen peeking through the grass. The wind from its propeller bashed some wild roses about until the petals fell off like pink snow. Then this lunatic dressed in a green boiler suit and a motorbike hat came running over, carrying a c.b. radio, and said something about someone falling over something. We couldn’t hear for the noise of the engine. I yelled back, What? The man babbled something else, poking at his hat with one hand. Florrie grabbed my arm, and pulled me away, her mouth going, but I couldn’t hear the words for the noise. I went with her. The skinny man began to follow, then turned round and went back to the machine, which made even more noise, battered even more flowers to death, and then floated off again. It got quieter when it went away. Florrie was shaking, so we sat on a handy rock, and had a cup of tea while she got her nerves back. The day was spoiled, now, so we went back to our room.

Steve watched Vince plug into the intercom again, once he was back inside the Sea-King. Anything?

"No, they were a couple of half-senile old coots. I couldn’t get any