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
“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
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