A (mostly)true tale of Police Aviation:
There I was at twelve hundred feet over Liverpool, mach 0.196, and we're dropping like a stone to 800, tucking in nicely behind the convoy of blue lights in pursuit of a vehicle with no lights. It's a typical May night in Merseyside – not cold enough for the cabin heat, nor hot enough for the aircon – which we don’t have anyway.
But that's neither here nor there. The night is moonless over the city tonight, but who cares. The reflections from all the street lights make it like day. And they call this night flying!
We stick with the vehicle like glue, while a nervous Force Incident Manager tells the bobbies on the ground not to get too close, or drive to fast or some such rubbish. It makes no difference. After going round and round the Norris Green corn circles for half an hour the driver rips his sump out on a kerb and grinds to a halt. Turns out it was his girlfriends car. Well, probably his ex girlfriends car now.
After another job where we watch a houseowner’s dog have a good chew on a burglar hiding in the garden, we head on home. A laser beam flicks around the cockpit, but a couple of crazy ivans and turning the nav lights off gets rid of it.
As we approach Woodvale, the airfield is as black as a witch’s tit, where I can see only one or two lights. Obviously the batteries on the landing lights have run down already.
The preferred approach is the “try not to annoy the locals” method. This is a highly co-ordinated approach and allows the pilot to ingress the landing zone in an unpredictable manner, thereby avoiding the incoming ‘phone calls. Personally, I wouldn't bother, if they choose to live next to an airfield…but it keeps the Inspector happy.
I can’t get a visual on the runway, so mentally calculate the intersection of the lights from the local BP gas station and the searchlights over Blackpool tower to find the centre of the airfield. Now it's time to show the Police observers some serious pilot stuff, as I decide to go for the “360 auto to the hover option”. I drop the lever and rack on 90 degrees of bank, at the same time hauling back on the cyclic to get somewhere near the best auto speed. Shouting to make myself heard over the rotor overspeed warning, I get the observers to carry out their pre-landing checks, having, of course, already done mine.
Halfway round the turn I notice that an unforeseen crosswind has sprung up, so rapidly reverse to stay within the confines of the field. By 100 agl I’m within 45 degrees of the wind, and the bobbies are strapped and secure. Now it’s all about airspeed and aim point. Well I’ve got the speed, but I still can’t see the ground. I switch on the landing lamp and then it’s time for a quick “Jesus!!”, flare! flare!, level and run on. Hover autos are for pussys. My nether regions relax and the observers quickly open the windows.
I glance across at the front observer, sitting there with a grin on his face. Well I think it was a grin, but it was dark. “Little does he know” I think. But then again perhaps he does.
“God, I could do with a coffee” says the GIB. I hover taxi over to the pad and shutdown.
At the third attempt, our lowest bidder fuel pump coughs into life, and we put some more go juice into the bird, watched by an audience of the local security patrol on his pushbike. “Why, oh why did I ever leave the military?” I ask myself. “So that I can go home everyday and not have to do this in some godforsaken country getting shot at” I reply, as I walk towards the office.
A vehicle looms out of the darkness heading towards us. I reach for my trusty axe, but it’s okay, it’s only the curry man bringing tonight’s supper. Perfect timing.