Snowstorm.
Chapter One.
The lowering, ominous skies above Tours, the provincial French Airport, and the sharp chill of the raw northeast wind that whipped round the low building, combined to make a grey, cheerless day. The promised rain hadn`t materialised as yet, but the clouds that scudded before the bitter wind were harbingers; messengers of the approaching weather prophesy.
A taxi swept to a halt at the airport`s entrance, and two passengers alighted, one with some difficulty; a youngish female, obviously heavily pregnant, and her companion, a young man. He assisted her as best he could, and both entered the Terminal through the entrance doors, into the Reception area. Travel arrangements confirmed, they exited out into the airport proper, onto the apron; the wind still bitter enough to make eyes water.
Close by, a small charter aircraft waited; the pilot waved, in recognition of both, and beckoned them towards him. The woman made her way to the aircraft with the waddling gait peculiar to pregnant women, and the young man shook hands with him, exchanging greetings, before helping her board the aeroplane.
`You made it, then`? the pilot grinned. The young man nodded, and raised his eyes to the heavens, grinning back at him.
`After a style`; he replied. `looks like it`s going to piddle down shortly, doesn`t it`?
`Probably will`, the pilot replied; `no worries; we should be there in a half hour or so. Doesn`t look too bright, does it? Still, that won`t hurt; it`s in your favour, isn`t it`?
The young man nodded, and the pilot heaved their suitcase into the rear of the `plane, onto the seat where Janet, the young woman, sat nursing her bump.
Shortly after, the pilot received his take-off clearance from the control tower; the aircraft sped down the runway, and began its ascent. Raindrops spattered against the windshield, as it left the ground, fulfilling the promise of the forecast.
`It`s widespread, this lot` the pilot said; `won`t be able to get away from it. Be there in half an hour or so, anyway`.
Jason, the young man, nodded and turned to the female passenger in the back seat, who was examining her reflection in a small compact.
`Best get sorted out now, Jan` he said; `be there shortly`.
Janet nodded, and began to remove her clothes; her movements much more fluid now. She shrugged off a harness type of arrangement, and laid it on the seat next to her, with a sigh of relief. Several packets were extracted from it; heavily wrapped in plastic and bound with duct tape. Janet passed all of them to him, along with the harness; he immediately packed them into a rucksack, of military manufacture, binding the whole with duct tape.
`Wrap the harness around that` the pilot said, giving Jason a heavy spanner; he made a parcel of the spanner inside the harness, and secured it with duct tape. When he`d done, he held it up for the pilot to see.
`That`s ok`, said the aviator. `when I give you the nod, bung it out`. He looked down at the Channel, at the grey water flecked with whitecaps, checked his watch, and nodded. Jason lifted the flap and put the package out; it was gone in an instant, spinning down toward the sea below.
The small charter aircraft flew onwards through the murk, and the pilot turned his head to look at the rucksack, packed and bound with duct tape, held in readiness on Jason`s lap. He also checked the compass, a hand held G.P.S. positioning system and his watch. Satisfied, he spoke to his passengers;
`Be there very soon` he announced; `all set`? Jason nodded, and patted the rucksack; Janet patted her bump, which was now merely packing, in order to simulate pregnancy. The pilot grinned, and turned to Jason; he flew in a state of prepared readiness, constantly checking his instruments; the desired position was fast approaching. Again, he looked at the G.P.S. and his compass. He made a minute adjustment to their course, checked everything once more, and then spoke to Jason.
`All set`? he asked, his eyebrows raised. `When I say; bung it out sharply, ok`? His passenger nodded, and held up the rucksack in readiness. The small Beechcraft Bonanza aircraft flew steadily on, the pilot with the G.P.S. held so that he could keep a close eye on their exact whereabouts.
`Ok, now`, he said; Jason lifted the flap window, and pushed the parcel through; as he did so, the rucksack`s shoulder strap caught on the window catch, and was momentarily held, bumping against the metallic skin of the aircraft.
`Get rid of it`! the pilot exclaimed; Jason fumbled the strap free, and the rucksack spun away, plummeting downwards. The pilot looked at his watch, dubiously, and shook his head.
`We lost about three seconds or so, there` he said.
`Can`t be helped, now; let`s see about getting down, out of this wet stuff“. He made an adjustment to the compass, and banked the small aircraft into a gradual climbing turn to the west.
The rain fell steadily on the place that the two men had selected to pitch their tent; a large expanse of open countryside, scenic enough in the summer, but not where you would choose to be on a day like this. A Range Rover sat next to the tent, pitched close by the river, which wound sluggishly through the Dorset countryside, quite close to Hampshire. Two fishing rods, floats bobbing nearby, had been set up on the riverbank, not far away from the tent.
Inside the modern bivouac shelter, two men gazed moodily out at the steady drizzle; one was wrestling with a large golfing umbrella.
`You alright with that`? enquired the other. `Leave it; `s only a bit of wet, won`t kill you`.
“Kin` thing`, mumbled Mick, barely audible. `All the same if it pisses down`. Both left the tent, and Mick, the one wrestling with the umbrella, gave up, He tossed the offending article back into the tent, and zipped it closed.
`Come on` said his companion; Tommy; `this thing will start bleeping shortly`. He took a small transponder unit, a sort of receiver, from his pocket, and switched it on; a red light appeared, steady and unblinking; he handed it to Mick.
`You hold that` he said; `don`t fuck about with it, just hold it, wait for it to start bleeping`. He took a hand held G.P.S. system from his other pocket, and looked at it. “bout a quarter of a mile, I reckon`, he said.
`This working`? asked Mick, holding it aloft; `it ain`t bleeping`, he said, peering suspiciously at it, before holding it aloft again.
`It will, when it`s ready`, replied Tommy, `when it`s in range; don`t fuck about with it`.
`I ain`t; I`m just holding it`, said Mickey; `Heads up`! he exclaimed, as the red light began to flash, accompanied by an intermittent beeping; “ere we go`;
Both men trudged through the drizzle, with Mick, some way in front, holding the transponder unit aloft, in the manner of a trophy. Overhead, a small aircraft could be heard, and the beeping emitted by the transponder became increasingly urgent; the sounds becoming closer together. Mick was holding the instrument at arm`s length, aloft.
`Marvellous bit of kit, this; we must be right on it`, Tommy heard him say, as the transponder`s beeping became almost continuous; the red light practically constant. Suddenly, without warning, some fifteen or twenty feet away, came an explosive whoomp!
`Fuck`! Mick leapt back in alarm; Tommy, some twenty feet behind him, realised at once what had happened, and exploded helplessly with mirth. Mick looked at him, his complexion ashen;
`What you laughing at? Nearly got fucking killed`! he said angrily; Tommy doubled up again, his shoulders shaking helplessly with silent laughter.
`Serves you right; told you to wait for me, didn`t I`? he chortled. Striding past Mick, he picked up the rucksack, and hoisted it over his shoulder, still chuckling.
Later that evening, having accomplished their task, the Range Rover left the fishing spot, all gear packed away. Shortly after, it could have been seen passing a road sign indicating the route to London. Tommy was at the wheel; occasionally, he gave vent to a small burst of chuckling. Mick glared at him, venomously;
`Alright for you`, he said; `frightened the fucking life out of me; like a bomb going off“. Tommy exploded into uncontrollable mirth once again; and they continued like that, with Mick occasionally grumbling, and Tommy collapsing into the odd bout of hilarity.
All references to people living or dead are accidental:
The following is a work of fiction.