Anyway, the member for Mid Oxon had the floor:
“Mr. Speaker, we’ve just heard from both sides of the house about what should be the level of foreign aid. However, my constituents are asking a different question....”
“Hear, hear!” ....From the opposition benches.
The interruption, completely out of context, may actually have been a startled ejaculation from someone abruptly woken from a snooze.
Damian took advantage of the interruption to repeat: “My constituents, Mr. Speaker, are not so much interested in the level of foreign aid. They are asking why we give any aid at all.”
There was a feeble murmur of “shame”.
“My constituents say,” continued Damian, for the third time, “that taxes should benefit only the society that pays them: the citizens of this country. Charity is a fine and worthy thing, but should be voluntary: Oxfam, Red Cross, Cancer Research, whatever your tipple. My constituents want to know why their government subsidises wannabe pop stars from the Congo and, through the back door, tinpot African dictators?”
Damian was unaware that an AfroAir flight would shortly be taking off for London with one such tinpot dictator, whose pay-off to his mistress would in part be funded by the generous taxpayers of Britain.
The chamber of the House of Commons erupted: surprising how much noise a mere rugby squad size could make. Speaker Cauldwell shouted “Order! Order!” and smiled to himself. This was more like it; glad he had let young White off the leash.
“Y’ mean zero foreign aid?” Came a shout from the solitary Lib Dem.
“Order!” Repeated the Speaker, in an attempt to quell further interruptions.
“In cash, yes,” replied Damian. “Zero. Zilch. But there’s one gift in kind we should give. You can see where my folks came from, so I can say this. The continent of Africa produces almost nothing.... well, there’s gold, copper, lots of metals... perhaps I should say it creates very little wealth to improve the lot of its people. Africa produces only one thing in serious quantities and that’s babies. Babies who grow up with no jobs and no prospects; babies who, all too often, starve. By far the best and most cost effective aid we can give Africa is.... Condoms.”
The rugby sized crowd in the chamber dissolved into a verbal scrum. As he vainly shouted “Order!”, Speaker Cauldwell was well satisfied. That had been a proper debate.
Damian White was also satisfied. He’d not made any new friends, but reckoned much of Mid Oxon would be behind him. Said things that needed saying. Wouldn’t make any difference, of course. In that respect Bessie Robotham had been right.
The member for Mid Oxon’s speech set no butterfly wings a-trembling. But it had been noticed in certain quarters, which would have a bearing on later events.
6
MARCH 13th.
Wednesday dawned wet and windy, one of those days when the season of spring had taken a couple of steps back into winter. Damian White MP was in no hurry to get up, partly because he was still savouring the rumpus he’d created the previous day. Telling what he considered to be home truths about foreign aid had been fun. But the main reason for his lack of haste was that this was PMQ day.
At twelve noon the house would gather for its weekly ritual of Prime Minister’s Questions. Parliamentary sketch writers and TV cameras would be out in force to capture the best production of Circus Westminster. Most Commons debates were depressingly dreary, so PMQs made a welcome change and attracted full houses.
Damian had quickly tired of this charade, which he reckoned was the Mother of Parliaments at its worst; intemperate and childish with ya-boo exchanges. Surely it was time they abandoned the adversarial system and began conducting their affairs in a more adult fashion.
So nowadays he gave PMQs a miss. After a leisurely breakfast, he would amble over to Portcullis House, where he had an office, and get down to reducing the size of his In-Tray.
Bessie Robotham would also be an absentee at PMQs, but for a different reason. She thoroughly enjoyed her job of Conservative Chief Whip, but it was demanding, stressful, and had to be focussed on one simple target: to get everyone - or as near everyone as she could manage - into the correct lobby when the division bell rang. PMQs were theatre, with no vote at stake. A diversion. Therefore eminently missable.
7
Still Wednesday. In the skies above London the usual flock of metal birds were homing in on Heathrow. Tim Adamson, Approach Director in Terminal Control, had a feeling it was going to be one of those days.
He envied his colleagues at Departure Control, who only had to get flights away more or less on time. At the start of the jet era this had been a free-for-all, but queues waiting for take off had grown to such an extent that some aircraft burned all their reserves waiting on the ground and had been forced to return to top up. So nowadays departure delays were absorbed at the gate, engines only started when cleared. Nice and easy.
It was far from easy for Tim Adamson, a slim and gangly veteran of the radar screen. Politicians had consistently funked decisions on London’s major airport, with the result that Heathrow staggered along, working at 100% capacity, no slack in the system. Unlike departures, arrivals couldn’t be parked in limbo until a slot became available. Because it costs fuel to carry fuel, which is an expensive item, no one tanked up with more than the legal minimum. If arrival delays became serious, everyone would start screaming that they must land a.s.a.p.
Like traffic on the ground, Heathrow has predictable rush hours. It’s the unpredictable rush hours that cause the problem. These may occur because airline schedules are merely an average taken over a complete season, summer or winter. As with any average, there will be variations on either side. The Atlantic jet stream might have moved, causing flights from North America to arrive up to an hour late. The same effect could see flights from Asia turning up early. Either or both of these could impact on already busy rush hours. The permutations were endless.
Tim glanced at his watch: 11.25. His job was to gather the arrivals and feed them into the funnel of the Instrument Landing System (ILS), after which they would become the responsibility of Heathrow tower and he could forget about them. With a wind just to the west of south, the Runway in use today was 27 Left, so Tim was sequencing his arrivals to a point roughly over Brixton, South London, from where they would lock onto the ILS for their final approach.
At one time he could simply have peeled them off the London stacks, Bovingdon to the north and Ockham to the south; easy once you got the hang of it. But those days were gone. Not before time, because having large aircraft flying tight racetrack patterns on top of one another, separated by only 1,000ft, was a primitive business. ‘Altitude busts’ - flights descending beyond their assigned levels - had been known to occur and he marvelled there had never been a major disaster.
Now Tim Adamson was in charge of a more complex, but safer, computer aided system, known as Linear Holding, which varied speeds and headings, so that each flight arrived at ‘long finals’ over Brixton at exactly the correct time and speed.
He wriggled in his seat in front of the screen. An arrivals surge was on the way.
Concentrate.
8
AfroAir’s London bound flight was no longer heading towards its intended destination, although Captain Osajefo was unaware of the fact. First Officer Johnson would normally have been trembling in his nice black uniform shoes, dreading what his boss would say when he found out, but he was by now almost past caring, anaesthetised by lack of sleep.
To prevent just such a situation, airlines are required to abide by Flight Time Limitations, a book almost as thick as a Bible and needing a PhD to interpret. Variables included: time of day the flight started: length of duty day: amount of time off before the flight: number of crew members: type of rest onboard. And that was merely to work out the allowable schedule. Once a duty day started, another set of rules laid down how long you could carry on in the event of delays, remembering that you can’t clock-off at 35,000ft.
>
Despite his European sounding name, Johnson was as African as his captain and lived in a nice suburban house with a wife and five children. He always tried to get some sleep before a long night flight and always failed. A posse of young kids running around outside his bedroom didn’t help. So when he reported for duty at 8pm he was scarcely daisy-fresh.
That should not have mattered, because the aforesaid Flight Time Limitations decreed that his coming schedule was long enough and nasty enough to warrant an extra crew member. Take a bow First Officer Nkrane. The Airbus had two bunks in a little nest under the flight deck and the normal regime would have been for Captain Osajefo and First Officer Johnson to operate the first couple of hours, after which one of them, the captain say, would take himself off to the bunk, to be replaced by relief pilot Nkrane. Halfway through the night the captain would return and it would be Johnson’s turn to sleep. Shortly before their arrival, Johnson would come back to rejoin the captain for the approach and landing.
Captain Osajefo did not operate ‘normal regimes’. Perhaps it was just that his usual workhorse, a desk, did not require rest periods, like those pesky pilots. Whatever the reason, Captain Osajefo absented himself early in the flight, giving no indication when he might return. Nkrane lowered himself into the left hand seat and the two first officers proceeded to guide the Airbus in the direction of London.
All long night flights are tedious, but this one was also frustrating. The Inter Tropical Convergence Zone, alias the tropical rain belt, was being particularly obnoxious and with the Airbus still too heavy with fuel to climb clear of the storms, the pilots spent forty minutes glued to the weather radar to avoid the worst of the bumps.
Then, when clear of the weather and now light enough to climb, they found a higher level blocked by a Nigerian flight. They could see its red anti-collision light blinking away just ahead. This was annoying because jet engines operate most efficiently at high altitude, flights plans being based on the assumption that you climb in stages, when light enough to do so. If these higher levels are denied, you use more fuel. A jet stream over the coast of North Africa that was stronger and more northerly than forecast plundered their reserves even further.
By the time they reached France, First Officer Johnson was not only whacked, he was also angry. It was now full daylight, the captain had stolen his rest period, but still showed no signs of appearing. As two pilots had to be at the controls at all times, he had been unable to leave the cockpit, so had asked a steward to go back and remind the captain of his commitment up front. The steward had returned, shame faced, to report that Captain Osajefo was in deep discussion with President Zumweski. You didn’t disturb the president if you valued your job - not in Africa, you didn’t.
Osajefo and Zumweski were from different tribes and normally loathed each other, but strange things happened in African politics. Was a new alignment in the offing?
Johnson was too tired to care. His job was to fly the Airbus and this he would continue to do. With or without his captain.
When Johnson heard the news from Heathrow, he said to himself: “That prick Osajefo is still in the back playing politics, refusing to speak, so it’s up to me. It’s decision time. My decision.”
Heathrow’s latest weather report gave a 700 foot cloud base with rain; wind from 200° at 35 knots, gusting to 45knots. There’s not much in the way of weather that can stop the relentless march of aviation, but wind is one of them. Especially too much wind from the wrong direction.
Early airfields were just patches of grassland with a windsock; a simple matter to launch your frail craft into wind. When they started building runways, the usual pattern was a triangle; one of the three bits of concrete would be near enough into wind. But with the advent of big jets and mass travel, wind became less important than coping with high traffic volumes. Any airport that needed another runway would now build it in the same direction as the other one: or two; or three. This meant that crosswind operations became commonplace. This was no problem up to a point, which was usually set at a maximum of 25 knot crosswind component for landing.
First Officer Johnson considered the evidence. Heathrow’s two runways are aligned exactly east-west, so a near southerly wind at 35 knots would be over their crosswind limit, never mind if they caught a 45 knot gust. Their fuel reserves had taken a beating on the way up, so if they had a go at Heathrow, with delays already at twenty minutes, and found on their arrival that the wind still too strong, they would be seriously short of funkholes; really just Gatwick, with similar weather and runway direction.
However, as long as they didn’t waste time trying for Heathrow, they had plenty of gas for Birmingham or Manchester.
Yes, Manchester, with its lovely southwest pointing runway, almost into wind. And no delays. It was no contest. Johnson asked ATC for a diversion to Manchester. Fifteen minutes later, having crossed the English coast, he started a slow descent.
AfroAir had just passed through 20,000ft. when Captain Osajefo finally made an appearance; a big, dark, menacing figure, smelling strongly of aftershave. The captain looked to have spent a restful night, unlike his co-pilot, who was beginning to feel slightly sick. A failed dalliance with a fried breakfast, extreme fatigue and now that whiff of aftershave... Ugh! Johnson made a big effort to appear normal and professional.
Meanwhile, relief pilot Nkrane hurriedly vacated the left hand seat and disappeared in the direction of the bunk. He might manage a brief kip, but the main thing was he would be well clear of the action when the shit hit the fan. As he knew it would.
Captain Osajefo lowered himself into the Commander’s seat, looked across at his co-pilot and asked: “All in order, Mr. Johnson?”
“Yessir.”
“And our ETA?”
“Eleven thirty seven, sir.”
“In my absence we seem to have lost some time.” He made it sound as though they would still have been on schedule had he been present.
Co-pilot Johnson gulped. He could delay the dreadful news no longer. “That’s our ETA for Manchester, sir.”
Osajefo just sat there. He found that long silences unnerved people. At last he uttered a single word: “Manchester?”
“Yessir. Heathrow crosswind is above our limits. Also long delays and we’re none too healthy on fuel. Manchester is our only safe option.”
“Nonsense. Are you aware that crosswind limits are purely advisory?”
Johnson remained dumb. He knew they were mandatory, but was not about to argue with his chief pilot.
“What’s more, President Zumweski is expected at Heathrow, not Manchester,” continued the captain. “Red carpet welcome, British Foreign Secretary there to meet him. It’s no secret that I’ve not always seen eye to eye with Zumweski, but I’ve just had a long chat with him and am delighted to tell you we’ve reached an accommodation. A new chapter in relations between our communities. I’ve no intention of delivering the president to the provincial backwater of Manchester. Tell ATC we’re returning to London.”
“But sir.....” began Johnson, then realised arguing was hopeless. If delays were restricted to twenty minutes they should be okay. Just about. If things became really fraught there was always the last ditch option of declaring an emergency.
Two minutes later AfroAir was heading back towards Heathrow.
9
London weather was also making life difficult for Captain McGregor. Although his First Officer was very experienced with many years on other types, the jumbo was different. And the training captain had pointed out he could do with more practice. So should Hardaker continue flying the sector, as planned and promised? Or should McGregor plead bad weather and do the job himself?
He hated taking landings off first officers. Showed a lack of confidence in them. Which of course was precisely the case. Being new to the 747, Hardaker would understand. Even so...
A pity Heathrow no longer had Runway 23, which would have been ideal under these conditions. It had been a short runway, but that wa
s no problem when landing into a gale, the only occasions it had been used. Actually, not quite the only occasion..... Back in 1968, aviation’s Jurassic age, that short stretch of concrete had been a life saver for a BOAC 707, which had suffered an engine fire on take-off, but managed to scramble back to safety on Runway 05, the opposite direction to 23. All but four people had escaped from the subsequent inferno, whereas if the 707 had been forced to return to the standard runway it’s doubtful whether anyone would have survived.
No good wishing. Runway 23/05 was long gone, a victim of Heathrow’s expansion, the area now covered in aircraft parking stands.
McGregor made up his mind. Hardaker would do the landing. He, the captain, could always take over if the first officer seemed to be having difficulties.
When McGregor’s flight appeared on Tim Adamson’s radar screen, the arrivals surge was already well under way. There were the usual four blips on finals, the rest scattered above greater London. No longer in stacks, but on seemingly haphazard routes, waiting to be vectored towards the mouth of that finals funnel over Brixton.
What about AfroAir? Well, captain Osajefo was now heading back south, after First Officer Johnson’s misguided idea of diverting to Manchester. They would be appearing on Adamson’s screen shortly.
Delays were holding at about twenty minutes. A normal day at Heathrow. Perhaps not quite normal. The weather was not always this filthy. But it was certainly not unusual. Tim wriggled in his seat again. Concentrated on the radar screen.
The clock showed 1142 when Adamson slotted McGregor’s flight into the back of the finals queue over Brixton and handed him over to Heathrow tower; promptly forgot about him and turned his attention to the next ones.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 3