He showered, shaved, dressed and packed the small amount of kit he had. He also strapped on his Walther PPK – just in case.
When he walked into the hangar, most of the team were already there, packed and waiting – it was 0700 hours.
The time portal was to be just off Cromer at 0935 – in the centre of a large Cumulonimbus cloud – basically in the middle of a huge thunderstorm. It was incredibly dangerous flying, as a Cu-Nimb could rip the wings of a jet aircraft in a heartbeat – with down-draughts of up to two hundred miles per hour having previously been recorded. However, they had little choice – it was ‘shit or bust’ and Todd settled down to his final meal in 1940 full of trepidation and fear for what the day might bring. He had already looked outside to check the weather, and to his relief the weather was appalling. Large, dark clouds surrounded the airfield and violent showers were passing through about every twenty minutes. This was exactly as it should be if the plan was to succeed.
However, he was presented with some very bad news as he tucked into his cereal and toast - eggs were still a rarity and could not be spared.
His father sat beside him and greeted him sternly.
‘Wing Commander, are we ready to depart? I trust that everything is in order and that your personnel are fully prepared?’
‘Yes sir. We are planning an 0900 take-off, which gives us thirty-five minutes before the TOT. That's plenty.’
The AVM changed tack.
‘We might have to cut it finer than that. I have heard some disturbing news. British intelligence has detected a large German invasion force departing the French coast. Our aircraft and naval fighting vessels are attempting to thwart it, but I'm told that it's highly likely that this attack may succeed. However, we have one factor in our favour – the British weather. As with the Spanish Armada back in Drake’s time, the seas in the Channel are extremely challenging this morning and German vessels are making little headway at present. Nevertheless, their long range artillery is pounding Dover and their aircraft are attacking in force where they are able. That is why I suggested that we might have to cut our flight time to the bone. What is the absolutely latest take-off we can manage? If we are up for the minimum of time, it's gives the Luftwaffe less time to interfere with our escape.’
Todd nodded and checked his briefing notes:
‘The Herc needs the full twenty-five minutes. It's one hundred track miles to Cromer and we will have to travel at around two-forty knots. 0910 is the latest take-off we can allow.’
The AVM looked pensive.
‘Ok, we’ll go for some time between 0900 and 0910 and just hope for the best, and that no Me 262s find us before we find that cloud.’
‘My Tornado will be armed with missiles and guns, so I’ll be there to protect you if it becomes necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it's time for the final briefing. I plan to start engines at 0830 and taxy at 0845. All personnel will be on board the C-130 by 0815 and Stumpy and I will follow you out. Will you want to speak to the team before take-off?’
Sir Henry smiled weakly.
‘I don’t think that any of them want to hear what I've got to say. I'm a pariah and so be it. I've made my bed and I'll lie in it. As they say – we’ll talk about it on the ground – on the other side.’
As he finished his sentence an enormous flash of lightning enveloped the hangar, followed by the loudest clap of thunder Todd had ever experienced.
‘Jesus H Christ! I hope we get a break in this bloody weather so we can actually get airborne.’
‘It makes no difference, Wing Commander. We go whether the weather is suitable or not. It really doesn’t matter if the ride is rough – or if we crash in the attempt – we must be ten miles off Cromer at 0935 – or we will end up stranded forever.’
Todd knew the score and he fully realised that they would have to risk a launch in any weather. He stood up and walked towards the group of airmen waiting expectantly at the rear of the C-130.
It was 0800.
Todd stood in front of his troops and spoke to them for the last time.
‘Good morning ladies and gentlemen. Well, what can I say? It's been an emotional, mystifying and at times a heart-breaking experience. None of us wanted to be here and we've all lost many, many colleagues and friends in this weird alternative world. Like all of you, I just want to go home and see my loved ones again. I don’t know what the hell we are going to say to them – but I'm sure that the AVM has got it covered.’ The sarcasm was not lost on his audience.
‘At the very least, there should be a few books and TV documentaries and films in it. You’ll all be very rich – so maybe that's a small consolation. For me, I would like some answers – and I promise you that if – sorry, when we get back I will demand the truth. There has been a conspiracy to trick us into this ghastly adventure, and somebody will be paying the price for their treachery and disloyalty. However, that is for later. Now we have just a short twenty-five minute trip to complete and we should be home. Thank you all for your support and effort over the past couple of months. I suggest that you now load up and get those engines started. Strap in tightly and hang on. Good luck – I’ll see you on the other side.’
There was a small ripple of applause, but Todd ignored it and walked over to Stumpy, shook hands and wished him good luck.
The AVM climbed aboard the C-130 and assumed the duties of a co-pilot, in the absence of the aircrew officer killed in the air-raid at Middle Fleckney.
Local airmen from 1940 took up the duties of ‘start-up crews’ and within thirty minutes both aircraft were sitting in the hangar, engines running, ready to taxy.
It was 0842.
The gigantic hangar doors slowly opened and the rain from a passing thunder shower streamed through the opening. A flash of lightning lit up the dank greyness looming outside and foreboding ran right through Todd’s bones.
The Hercules taxied first and headed for the runway threshold, followed closely by the last remaining Tornado, which was armed to the gunnels.
The airmen on the Herc were filled with dread and anxiety, but the hope, faith and positive expectation more than overcame their concerns. Todd was not so confident. It was teeming down with rain, and the taxiway and runway were badly flooded. The drainage in 1940 was not up to 1990s standards, making the take-off extremely hazardous. In normal circumstances no sensible aircraft captain would even remotely contemplate flying in these conditions. They would all be back safely in the crewroom quaffing coffee, playing Clag and munching Kit-Kats!
However, as the AVM had already made clear – they were taking off – whatever the weather. They taxied warily to the runway threshold and prepared to line up in several inches of water.
It was 0900.
‘Purple Two, take-off?’
ATC replied instantaneously.
‘Purple Two, clear take-off. Good luck, old chap. Rather you than me.’
The C-130 pulled onto the runway, ran up its engines and as a huge clap of thunder roared overhead, rolled away and disappeared into the spray and rain.
Todd immediately taxied onto the runway and called ATC.
‘Purple One, take-off in turn.’
‘Roger Purple One. Clear take-off – Bon Voyage and good hunting.’
Todd keyed his mic twice as Stumpy ran up the jet engines. When full power was reached he released the brakes and rolled down the flooded runway. If they had to stop now, they would surely skid and slide to their doom. Stumpy monitored his instruments whilst simultaneously watching the C-130 get airborne. He didn’t want to lose sight of the prop aircraft in this diabolical visibility – but he wasn’t holding out much hope.
The Tornado veered violently and struggled to get airborne, and had already lost contact with the Herc. The brief for this eventuality was to turn left thirty degrees, whilst the Herc continued straight ahead to avoid a collision. Stumpy called his actions on the RT.
‘Purple One turning left thirty and climbing to ten thousand. Proceed as briefed.
See you in the area. We’ll search for a clearance.’
‘Purple Two, acknowledged. We’ll proceed independently. Hold at the RV at twelve thousand. Keep an eye out for bandits.’
‘Roger, Purple two. Our ETA at the RV is 0918. Call at RV. We’ll be two thousand above.’
Todd and Stumpy climbed away, desperately looking for a break in the thunderstorm clouds – as there usually was. They weren’t like pure rain clouds – there would be patches of clear air between the showers.
‘At least the bloody Germans will be grounded in this. The last thing we want is an Me 262 at the RV,’ grumbled Stumpy.
It was 0915.
The Tornado reached the RV and mercifully it was in clear air. However, about ten miles to the west was the mother of all storms, flashing and rumbling and moving closer.
‘Purple Two, do you read?’
‘Affirmative, One, we are two minutes to RV. We are at ten thousand feet and in the clear. How about you?
Todd answered.
‘Purple One is in the clear at twelve thousand and, standby, yes……we have you contact – two thousand below. We are descending to formate on you. Circle at the RV and wait for the window. There is an enormous stormcloud heading our way.’
It was 0930.
Stumpy manoeuvred the Tornado down to ten thousand feet and slipped in behind the C-130 as it began to orbit at the pre-briefed co-ordinates.
It was 0933.
‘Joined up, Purple Two. What now?’
The AVM replied.
‘Continue to orbit.’
‘Roger, Purple One standing-by.’
It was 0934.
Both aircraft were now being overtaken by the leading edge of the Cumulonimbus cloud which caused terrible turbulence, throwing the passengers in the Hercules transport violently from side to side in their seats. Several people had already been sick and panic was beginning to set in.
It was 0935.
‘Purple Two from One, do you read?’ Todd was losing patience.
At which point a massive bolt of lightning struck both aircraft, cruelly jolting crews and passengers alike. The air was filled with the stench of burning metal and both aeroplanes hovered as if suspended in time.
Then all of a sudden, the storm had passed and the two aircraft were in calm, still air.
The AVM gathered his wits first.
‘Purple One, do you read?’
Twenty seconds of silence followed before Todd replied.
‘Affirmative, Purple Two, loud and clear. What now?’
‘I suggest you call Marham on approach frequency and see if we get an answer? I think that we might be home.’
55 -1
Norfolk
8 September 1992
Air Vice Marshal Sir Henry Morrissey was a selfish and calculating individual, totally devoted to and besotted by his late wife, Lady Constance Andrews. He had gone along with her plans to arrange for the ‘re-birth’ of her brother because he loved and cherished her every act.
He had taken a bit of convincing in the early days, but when she produced evidence which proved that the scheme would – indeed, must – work, he became completely dedicated to the inevitable. She had introduced him, in 1975, to a young and aspiring MP for Huntingdon. They became firm friends and after some detailed research, it was discovered that the politician had been born in 1941 and adopted by a family working in a travelling circus. The man’s mother was Patsy Jackson, his father Todd Morrissey and the MP’s name was John Major.
When Major became Prime Minister after the fall of Margaret Thatcher, he conspired with Sir Henry and Lady Constance to allow the flypast to take place. He allowed Sir Henry far too much latitude, but of course, if they didn’t go back – then John Major would never have existed. It was a stranglehold which Lady Constance tightened over the years.
Sir Henry mapped out his career meticulously, aided by Sir Peter Andrews, who's influence with most Prime Ministers since the war was impressive. The AVM was well aware of his wife’s determination to rescue her brother and happily tolerated the obsession it became.
What he really didn’t understand were the issues surrounding time travel, and the potential paradoxes they produced. However, he was well aware that there were many possible parallel universes to which he might return – and indeed it had a been a huge risk returning to 1940 in the first place. The Flypast aircraft from 1992 might have ended up anywhere and Constance could easily have been thwarted.
He was well aware of the theories postulated by Jim Charles – and really didn’t give a damn. Once Constance had achieved her main goal, he was satisfied. When she died, the flame of life extinguished within him. He really didn’t care whether he returned to 1992 or not – in which ever universe it might be. He postulated that he might end up somewhere dreadful – a nasty dystopian world far worse than this – and what good would that do him?
He also realised that he would have a lot of questions to answer, and his life would become extremely unpleasant when the survivors made their views plain.
It was with all of this in mind that he did what he did next.
What he wasn’t aware of was that this was the fifty-seventh time that an Air Vice Marshal Morrissey had attempted to cross the space-time continuum. All previous attempts had ended in eventual failure and Constance had spent an eternity trying to save her brother.
Would this crossing be any different?
***
‘Affirmative, Purple Two, loud and clear. What now?’
‘I suggest you call Marham on ‘Guard’ frequency and see if we get an answer? I think that we might be home.’
‘Roger Purple Two, break-break, Marham Approach, this is Purple Lead on Guard, do you read, over.’
One could almost see the giant thinks-bubble appear over RAF Marham.
‘Aircraft calling Marham, say again your callsign.’
Todd exploded with relief as Stumpy let out a loud whoop from the front seat.
‘Marham, this is Purple One, requesting radar vectors to radar to land. We are two aircraft, one jet and one C-130.’
More thinks bubbles.
‘Purple Lead, are you making some sort of sick joke. Clarify your position and squawk 7145, turn onto heading 360 degrees for identification and please explain again exactly who you are.’
Todd was a mite perturbed and mystified.
‘Marham, this is Purple One, Wing Commander Todd Morrissey, commanding the residue of the Falklands Victory Flypast Formation. We request radar assistance to land at Marham. Turning onto a heading of 360 and squawking as requested.’
Air Traffic at Marham could not believe their ears. The officer on station gave several sharp orders to his assistant.
‘Get SATCO, the Station Commander, OC Ops and OC Police Flight up here on the double, whilst I vector these jokers a bit closer and stall for time.’
The ATC Officer drew breath and continued.
‘Purple formation, confirm that you are two aircraft. Give number of persons on board and re-state your intentions.’
Todd decided to play along. There was clearly an issue on the ground to be resolved.
‘Roger Marham. Two aircraft, two POB on the 619 Squadron Tornado and five-zero POB on the 47 Squadron Hercules, including Air Vice Marshal Sir Henry Morrissey. Do you copy?’
‘Roger Purple one, turn right onto zero-niner-zero. We are authenticating your message.’
‘Shit,’ thought Todd, ‘we've come back to a different time.’ He then had a brainwave.
‘Marham, Purple One requesting todays date?’
The ATC Officer was becoming more and more bamboozled.
‘Roger, Purple One, it's the eighth of September.’
‘And year,’ requested Todd.
‘1992 – what are you playing at Purple One?’ answered the incredulous ATCO.
Todd and Stumpy let out a collective sigh of relief.
‘Thank fuck for that,’ shouted Stumpy.
‘Hang on mate, we
’re six months late. No wonder they are confused down there. I should check some other stuff.’
‘Marham, Purple One, could you please indulge me some more and just answer two more questions. One, when did the Second World War end and when did Winston Churchill die?’
At that point in the conversation the four senior officers had reached the tower and the Station Commander took over.
‘Todd, if that's who you are, this is Group Captain Martin Osborne. We know each other and I recognise your voice, so for the time being I’ll indulge you, but I just hope you are who you say you are. The Second World War ended in 1945 and Churchill died in ’65 if I'm not mistaken.’
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