The skies over England were clear, a treat for those who rarely saw blue. The noisy engine of the pale-green Gloster Gladiator clattered away, drowning out any chance of conversation. But none was needed. The fields below slid gracefully by like a patchwork quilt. In one or two, tractors and combine harvesters rattled across the ground like grossly oversized insects.
The abundance of agricultural machinery was partly a by-product of the recently-signed Anglo-Soviet pact. The British industry was thriving, producing machines in their thousands, to utilise the vast areas of space which lay, unused, in Russia and Ukraine. With agricultural resources flooding into the USSR, and oil being supplied to Britain at a rate which was previously unheard of, both nations were prospering.
But none of that crossed the minds of the two who were nestled under the spiderweb canopy of the dual-control cockpit. Eddie had finally gotten around to getting his pilot's licence; it was now completely legal for him to be flying the 'plane. Although the law would likely frown upon the stack of sub-machine guns under his seat.
The ancient city of York passed under the wings, and he glanced over to Julia. She looked back and smiled. They'd met eight months ago, through the organisation, and had been together ever since. She'd taught him to fly, since she'd been doing sorties for the gang for years. He'd taught her how to do a handbrake turn in a Bedford, and how to drop a bloke from the passenger seat, using a Webley revolver. In truth, he felt guilty; there was very little he could do to repay her, but she didn't seem to mind.
He took his hands from the controls, and flicked his intercom on.
"You have control."
Her head turned back towards her own cockpit, and she took control of the aircraft. Unlike him, she wore no flying helmet, just a headset and a wooly hat. Her flying jacket was also thinner than his, as she wore a white, knitted turtleneck jumper under it.
It wasn't to be a long flight; just up to York, then back to the aerodrome. Eddie had a job lined up for the afternoon, and had to be there dead on time.
Whilst he occasionally flew sorties to and from the channel, it wasn't his job. Although it had earned him the nickname 'the Seagull'. More often, he was a driver for the gang; usually ferrying goods around in a Bedford truck, but also, every once in a while, acting as a getaway driver, or taking part in raids. Tonight it was going to be the latter.
The abundance of agricultural machinery was partly a by-product of the recently-signed Anglo-Soviet pact. The British industry was thriving, producing machines in their thousands, to utilise the vast areas of space which lay, unused, in Russia and Ukraine. With agricultural resources flooding into the USSR, and oil being supplied to Britain at a rate which was previously unheard of, both nations were prospering.
But none of that crossed the minds of the two who were nestled under the spiderweb canopy of the dual-control cockpit. Eddie had finally gotten around to getting his pilot's licence; it was now completely legal for him to be flying the 'plane. Although the law would likely frown upon the stack of sub-machine guns under his seat.
The ancient city of York passed under the wings, and he glanced over to Julia. She looked back and smiled. They'd met eight months ago, through the organisation, and had been together ever since. She'd taught him to fly, since she'd been doing sorties for the gang for years. He'd taught her how to do a handbrake turn in a Bedford, and how to drop a bloke from the passenger seat, using a Webley revolver. In truth, he felt guilty; there was very little he could do to repay her, but she didn't seem to mind.
He took his hands from the controls, and flicked his intercom on.
"You have control."
Her head turned back towards her own cockpit, and she took control of the aircraft. Unlike him, she wore no flying helmet, just a headset and a wooly hat. Her flying jacket was also thinner than his, as she wore a white, knitted turtleneck jumper under it.
It wasn't to be a long flight; just up to York, then back to the aerodrome. Eddie had a job lined up for the afternoon, and had to be there dead on time.
Whilst he occasionally flew sorties to and from the channel, it wasn't his job. Although it had earned him the nickname 'the Seagull'. More often, he was a driver for the gang; usually ferrying goods around in a Bedford truck, but also, every once in a while, acting as a getaway driver, or taking part in raids. Tonight it was going to be the latter.