Text Box: Synopsis When Brad Turner decided to take a vacation in West Africa, he could not have foreseen the astounding new path his life was to take. During his holiday, local people, angered by hunger and hardship are incited by the story's villain to surround a luxurious hotel and hold the guests to ransom. The British Government is slow to respond and the rebels publicly execute one hostage each day. Brad, an ex-serviceman, together with other old soldiers, organise the frightened holidaymakers into an effective defensive force. Military style training takes place and old warriors resurface, young ones are born and the latent British fighting spirit emerges. An ageing Cessna light aircraft is creatively converted into a fighter-bomber and flown from the beleaguered hotel grounds. The action is carried to the enemy with surprising results. There is something for everyone in this novel. For those who love flying there are brilliant feats of air combat all accurately portrayed by the writer who has tested the type to its limit. Romance, sex, intrigue and adventure are some of the features in this remarkable story which climbs steadily to a thrilling climax with a dramatic sea chase in a restored ex-RAF rescue vessel aided by the country's President, the prime character and other members of 'Brads Army’ (an alternative title of the book) The author is a pilot and the flying sequences are accurate and exciting. This highly visual and detailed story is recommended for film making and is written in the English style. With grateful help from, The British Government's Secret Surveillance Centre at Cheltenham, The Gambian High Commission, The Royal Marines, The Home Office and Dr Nigel Garbutt. All made possible by much needed encouragement from a regular customer to my shop, Dick Francis. Chapter One “Ok Pete?" - I shouted over the roar of air and the aircraft's engine. With throttle in one hand and the vibrating control column in the other, I turned and looked back at my young companion strapped in the home-made gunners seat. His large capable hands steadied the ancient Bren gun in its makeshift mount in the open doorway. His smile was both trusting and enthusiastic as he gave me a thumb and forefinger circle. Some of the hotel guests had helped to pull the aircraft back to the far wall of the grounds, to increase, as much as possible, my pitifully short take off run. I was lucky, there was a steady African wind right on the nose and the dawn air was chilly. Cold dense air, more lift, lovely, couldn't be better. For the umpteenth time I regarded the take off path. Jesus H. It was like a dog’s hind leg, what the hell, if I could land in this maze, I could certainly take off. My throat was restricted and breathless with the thoughts of imminent battle I carried out the last of my pre-take off checks, looked round at the anxious faces of my friends then turned my attention to the awesome task ahead of me. Practicing short runway take-offs usually took place on long runways, thus there was never real danger, but here, in the beleaguered hotel grounds, the far wall seemed frighteningly close. I was, frankly, scared. If the machine didn't clear the wall, we would simply crash into the it with no chance of survival. Holding the brakes on, I opened the throttle fully. The engine bellowed and the entire airframe shuddered and strained against the brakes as the propeller bit into the early morning air. I could see little droplets of dew moving across the root of the wings, catching the early sun then exploding into the lovely colours of the rainbow. I examined the instruments, no small part of me wanted a malfunction, an excuse to abort, a reason to go on living, alas the engine defiantly roared with healthy vitality as it developed its maximum power. My teeth ground together and bowing to the inevitable I released the brakes. Like a greyhound released from the trap, the little craft surged forward to her fate, my feet held her straight with rudder. Now comes the tricky part, slightly left to miss the lake, speed coming up nicely, now right rudder to avoid the tennis courts, Jesus, what a game. I could feel the controls becoming more responsive as my speed increased. The boundary wall ahead looked horribly close, and as I checked my speed, realised that I still had insufficient air speed to fly. I had reached a no-going-back point; I couldn't stop now if I wanted to. The wall was getting so close that I had no choice but to try. Barely sixty knots on the gauge, now or never. Stick back slightly, reluctantly she rose from the grass, not enough. We were in the dead air in the lee of the wall. I could see I was going to hit the wall, if I pulled the control column back any further we would stall yet I had no choice, the obstruction was dangerously close and seemed to fill my vision. Inspired I increased flap, stick back a little further, she struggled a few more inches...

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15-06-11

New Authors Showcase

Rampage

by

 Edward Shillitoe

 

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