September 2010, Reno - Nevada.
Harry leaned back in the corner of the marquee in the Nevada desert. He sipped at a chilled bottle of water, calming his racing pulse with a deep breath. He'd occasionally tried air racing before, twice winning the English King's Cup air race, the first time in the mid-late '90s, flying a German Extra EA300 aerobatic plane, and a few months before, had entered in a Supermarine Spitfire Mk. IIA out of boredom.
The slowest aircraft had been a hundred-and-twenty-five mile-per-hour Cessna 152, which, due to it being a handicap race, had set off long before him, as he would be able to sustain a speed about three times that of the Cessna. For a non-customized aircraft, he'd made it dance around the course and smoothly passed every competitor, until the dive for the finishing line where he was miles behind the lead aircraft, but steadily reeled it in to win.
But now he was trying something far more intimidating. The race of races. Reno. Parked up in his little area were two aircraft, a heavily tuned Hawker Sea Fury and a de Havilland Venom with a far more powerful experimental engine. The Sea Fury was running a Bristol Centaurus radial pushing three-thousand horsepower. It had been a two-six-hundred horsepower engine, one of eight that Charlus Potter had raided from the scrapped Bristol Brabazon. However, behind the engine, was a second engine, another Brabazon Centaurus, pushing one of the two contra-rotating five-blade propellers. Along with the removal of the Hispano cannon and the faired-over gun-ports, the canopy was set back further, making for a cleaner shape, made from a single piece of a glass compound.
It sat, ticking away the heat after a practice flight, it was a lean, menacing shape.
By no means was Harry a Reno virgin, he'd flown jets here before, establishing a fearsome reputation. But he'd never flown one of the incredible piston-engined monsters here. Each year between 2004 and 2007, despite his unit being posted to Iraq and Afghanistan, he'd taken a weekend off and brought a Hawker Hunter to the jet class, fending off MiGs, Sabres and various other subsonic fast jets to win each year. It had been because of that that in 2007, they'd put in a rule banning any aircraft with a wing-sweep of over fifteen degrees.
He'd come back with the de Havilland Venom, with a nearly straight wing, the only sweep being a seventeen-degree sweep on the leading edge. It was his seventh jet race and there were a dozen planes, mostly ex-Warsaw Pact trainers, lined up to try and end his reign. Up against the Venom, running a Rolls-Royce Avon which fitted into the fuselage pod with room to spare except lengthways, where they had to extend the aircraft six inches, the opposition stood no chance. With shortened wings, fared-over gun ports and a one-piece canopy, it too was lean, menacing and fast.
"Sir!" called one of the RAF mechanics he'd been lent by the MoD to support his racing. "They're calling for the jet pilots to get in the air for qualifying."
"Thanks." Harry nodded, chucking his bottle of water in the cool box before walking out to the Venom. He stood on the wing as one of the other engineers climbed out, having started the aircraft up for him. Slipping in, Harry clipped on his harness and armed the ejector seat before plugging in his anti-G suit.
The rattle of the engines as the entire cockpit vibrated became a roar, the vibration like riding a blazing machine-gun. After winning pole position in the Venom during qualifying, Harry had once again fended off all comers in the race and now had the jet trophy sat on a pedestal next to the aircraft where the public could see it.
Then the time of the Sea Fury had come. He'd rolled out onto the runway and run up the aircraft, gleaming in the sun, every rivet flush, every seam filled with a varnish. Taking to the air, through the first three-quarters of his flying lap, Harry d put down an absolutely blistering pace. Then the engines had coughed and he'd began to lose momentum. Radioing urgently, he had pulled the aircraft off the race circuit and brought it down on the runway. After a raft of tests, the engineer's grim pronunciation was water in the fuel.
Harry could only fume with impotent rage as they flushed the engines, the fuel lines, injectors and the tanks to remove any and all water. They were lucky, he'd had all the momentum he'd needed, but if he'd been pulling a six-G turn on one wing-tip and the engine had cut fully, he'd have smacked into the earth at about three-hundred knots. Sabotage was suspected as all the other aircraft had been grounded and checked.
Luckily, the ethanol tanks were untouched, as were the nitrous-oxide bottles, meaning they would have plenty of boost, on top of the much-upgraded Roots-type supercharger. So he was rolling out in dead last position for the bronze heat, hell bent on working up to first place to take him to the silver heat, which he also intended to win, to take their aircraft, their team, and himself to the final race where the giants would clash.
Easing the fighter off the ground, Harry flipped the switch for the undercarriage, hearing the whine as it came up, followed by a series of light thunks as the wheels hit the wells. Applying the wheel brakes to stop them spinning in the wheel wells, he throttled back and hung on the tail of the Mustang in front of him.
Unlimited Race aircraft more often than not came in five forms, Hawker Sea Furies, North American P-51 Mustangs, Grumman F8F Bearcats and completely custom builds, usually around the centre section of Mustangs. His Sea Fury had cropped wings, a larger tail, streamlining, both engines running a far more powerful engine tune of about three-five-hundred horsepower maximum and a new contra-rotating propeller with a total of ten blades.
So as the race of half-a-dozen aircraft crossed the start-finish line, he smoothly pushed the throttle open to nearly full power, easing it over onto its port wing-tip. Pulling back, the aircraft on a knife-edge, he kept the first pylon in the corner of his eye. He cut through alongside a Mustang, gaining fifth place.
Within the Sea Fury's cockpit were various controls, however, in front of the throttle quadrant with the twin levers for the Bristol Centauri, was a second box, with two similar levers that no other Sea Fury had, one for the E85 and one for the N20. Harry had already passed a P-51 Mustang and directly ahead, was a P-40 Kittyhawk, an F-4 Wildcat, another P-51 Mustang, a Sea Fury and an F4U Corsair who was leading. He intended to hunt down each and every one of them.
Grimacing slightly as the oil temperature soared in unison with the noise of the engines, Harry kept easing open the chemical boost. The P-40 simply didn't have the power. It wasn't race-customised, whereas he'd spent hundreds of thousands of pounds, as well as unthinkable man-hours on readying his aircraft to race.
Then the Wildcat fell behind on the very short straight at the top of the circuit before he reduced the boost, turning to port again as the second pylon passed a hundred feet below his wing-tip. The course between pylon two and pylon three was a shallow turn, far less demanding than the start-finish to the first pylon.
Roaring past the third pylon, he opened up onto back straight, pushing open the throttles and the boost levers to maximum. Each and every one of the three-thousand plus horsepower from each engine pulled, his twin five-blade contra-rotating propeller dragging the fighter to four-hundred and fifty miles an hour on the shallow-curving back straight. He was in third, in front of him were the second Mustang, the Sea Fury and the Corsair.
Pulling even with the Mustang, Harry closed the boost, straining slightly as the g-force pushed him into his seat, hard. Side-by-side, they roared through pylons four, five, six and seven, the Sea Fury's larger size meaning it had a slightly worse turning circle compared to the smaller, lighter Mustang, an aircraft which when fully loaded, weighed less than the Sea Fury when it wasn't loaded with anything at all.
Then dipping the nose as they levelled onto the main straight, six-thousand horsepower began to tell as the P-51 simply fell back, crossing the edge of Harry's vision before vanishing below the wing. Looking up, he narrowed his eyes, fixing the mirror in his gaze.
The P-40 had followed him through and had made up a place, relegating the Wildcat to second-to-last place, while the Mustang he'd just overtaken was hanging on his tail, trying to turn tighter and faster. For a few moments, Harry was worried that he'd make the move stick. Looking ahead, as they turned into pylon one, the other Sea Fury cut the corner and overtook the Corsair which had been leading.
As the pack hurtled through top curve, through pylons one, two and three, the Mustang held even with Harry, its turning circle fighting against the raw speed of the Sea Fury, but once again as they emerged onto the slightly curving back straight, it began to fall back.
Harry hurtled into the fight between the Corsair and the other Sea Fury, turning into the curve of the straight, cutting straight between them with about fifty feet separation. He was in first place and in no mood to relinquish it, not that the other aircraft had enough grunt to keep up.
The day went by in a torrent of aviation fuel, nitrous-oxide and adrenaline. Speed, more speed, even more speed. Everything was concentrated in eking every bit of potential out of the monstrous Sea Fury, 'Spitting Fury'. He'd been bumped up to the silver heat where he started encountering mildly modified aircraft, but the British aircraft, painted in a fetching night-sky blue with tiny pinpricks of stars on it, had roared past to take first place.
From dead last to first place in the silver heat wasn't bad. Then he was invited to the Breitling Gold Heat where the unlimited monsters competed. A two-thousand five-hundred horsepower Yakovlev Yak-11 called 'Czech Mate', two three-thousand six-hundred horsepower P-51s, 'Strega' and 'Voodoo', F-8F Bearcat 'Rare Bear', the fastest piston-engined aircraft in the world, three-thousand horsepower Sea Fury 'Riff Raff', four-thousand horsepower Sea Fury 'Dreadnought' and four-thousand horsepower 'stock' P-51 'Ridge Runner III'.
Up against these, even Harry's poker face was being strained with the stress. They'd upped the boost... then upped it again. The cooling maximised and only just enough fuel to finish the race and land on board, no more. However, he first had to deal with a less customized pair of a Bearcat and a Sea Fury before he could tangle with the monsters. But despite his nervousness, Harry did have the utmost confidence in Hawker's airframe, Bristol's engines, and the engineers, the best the RAF had to offer, a couple pulled out of retirement.
Dropping down 'the chute' onto the start-finish straight, Harry fixed the two aircraft directly ahead of him in his vision. They soared down the straight, and into the first turn. Instead of trying to hold a tight line by throttling back, he jammed the throttle and boost levers fully open. Maximum speed.
The Bearcat couldn't hold as tight a turn, nor could it hold the speed. Harry was in eighth. Staying above and to the starboard of the other Sea Fury, he held the turn, a smooth bank to port past pylons two and three before opening up onto the back straight. He out-dragged the seventh placed aircraft, taking its place. He was now in the pack of immensely powerful custom racers. In front of him was 'Czech Mate', flying just below him and to his port, while 'Riff Raff' was ahead of the Yak.
Harry pulled into a shallow turn as they raced through past pylon four, then dragged the stick back into his stomach for the much tighter pylon five-six-seven turn. Pulling out onto the start-finish straight as his vision returned from the blood-drain, Harry was disappointed that the Yak was still ahead. But then as he levelled out, he spotted to his starboard and behind, 'Riff Raff', falling behind. They'd both passed the Sea Fury.
Going into a very shallow dive, Harry checked the turn-and-slip meter, making sure that he was flying dead-straight, trying to out-drag the monstrous custom Yakovlev down the straight. They were side-by-side, each pilot eyeing the other as they hurled themselves past the start-finish line, turning hard to pylon one, at which point the Yak was turning tighter. Then on the more straight exit from pylon one to pylon two, he was able to regain everything with pure grunt. Steadily, as the curve became shallower and shallower, opening onto the back straight, he pulled ahead, the over-boosted engines pulling 'Spitting Fury' through past 'Czech Mate'.
Together, the two aircraft, doing nearly four-hundred and sixty miles an hour, stormed down the back straight, Harry willing every bit of power from his engine. He needed it, because he did not want to lose his hard-earned place in sixth when they reached the tighter pylon five-six turn.
Pulling ahead, he kept flying smoothly, turning tightly into the turn, levelling out slightly for the shallower curve into pylon seven. The Yakovlev had to back off, he had the racing line and flying into his wash would not be beneficial. However, their furious flying had them hurtling down the straight at extreme speeds.
Harry kept half-an-eye on his speedometer as it climbed. Four-forty MPH. Four-fifty... Four-sixty. The air speed indicator was banging against the end of Hawker's readings. Switching his eye to the digital readout on top of the instrument panel, his eyes widened. Four-seventy and climbing. Four-seventy-five. Four-eighty. Still climbing.
Four-eighty-five. Harry was sweating, he was flying far faster than the aircraft should ever have done at this low a level and on the straight and level. Four-ninety, still climbing. Four-ninety-five. He eased the nose down slightly. Four-ninety-seven. He kept going, even as the pylon hove into view. FIVE HUNDRED! Harry's glove on the stick was soaked with sweat. The fighter was still accelerating. Five-oh-five. Five-oh-seven. Pitching the nose down further. Five hundred and ten. He throttled back and turned tighter than he'd ever want to again.
G-forces crushed him into his seat, and only instinct kept him in the turn, sustaining blackout even despite the anti-G suit squeezing his legs, constricting the blood-drain. Instinct kept him turning, pylon one, pylon two, pylon three. He swept past the pylon, regaining his vision as 'Spitting Fury', already doing about four-hundred hurtled down the back straight. Once again, Harry had to keep himself from being mesmerised by the ever increasing speed shown on the digital readout, keeping his gaze flicking about him for aircraft, ground and pylons.
He had faintly noticed a Mustang seemingly flying backwards as he exited the turn, still suffering from blackout. Last he'd known, the nearest P-51 was two places ahead of him in fourth. So either he'd not noticed passing another aircraft, or said other aircraft had passed the P-51 and was still ahead of him, with him in fifth.
"Report!" Harry barked over the radio.
"Spitting Fury, you are in fourth place. You have planes ahead, Bear, Voodoo and Strega, do you copy?" rattled off a highly-efficient voice.
"Copied." he grunted.
Fourth place then. And he was on lap four of eight. And he started in tenth.
Putting down a blistering pace over the next lap and a half, hanging onto the pack of 'Rare Bear', 'Voodoo' and 'Strega'. Then as they threw their aircraft down the back straight, he noticed a small amount of smoke coming from the purple P-51 in second place. It was Voodoo. And there was more smoke than should have been.
"Racer five, smoke exiting exhausts." he snapped.
"Roger." was the brisk response.
The smoke increased and 'Voodoo' pulled out of the circuit with a mayday call. Two left. Harry carried as much speed as possible through the bottom end of the circuit, and as they accelerated out, he pushed and pushed and pushed. 'Rare Bear' was doing much the same, but as the Sea Fury was pushing nearly twice the power, the Bearcat having a bigger frontal area, meaning more air resistance, and the twin five-blade Sea Fury propellers pulled better, it wasn't exactly difficult.
The luridly painted 'Rare Bear' held its own against the more understated-decorated 'Spitting Fury', both hurtling down the straight at unthinkable speeds for piston-engined planes. Harry saw his earlier record busted by himself, five-hundred and fifteen. They were playing a game of chicken. Whoever broke first would carry less speed into the corner, but if they left it too late, they would overrun. In the end, they broke nearly simultaneously, but Harry had more speed and carried it through the corner ahead of the Bearcat.
They were onto lap seven, the penultimate lap. Still close together, 'Rare Bear' and 'Spitting Fury' pounded around, Harry taking the tightest flying lines he could get away with and applying the absolute maximum power all the way round the circuit. They had caught up with the red-painted 'Strega', flying three in line-abreast.
Rare Bear had to back off as they came out of the corner onto the start-finish straight nearly into the back of another Bearcat, the last-placed aircraft. Neither 'Spitting Fury' or 'Strega' gave an inch. Flying closer than was completely safe, they hurtled by the slower-moving Bearcat, lapping it.
Once again, he was locked in a competition like he had fought with 'Czech Mate'. The Mustang turned tighter and was lighter. He had some pretty damn good grunt. The engines were running far higher boost, as well as chemical injection and a manganese-compound fuel, giving a level of horsepower none of the engineers, or the pilot, really knew. That wasn't to say the Sea Fury couldn't turn.
Both of them roared down the start-finish straight at over five-hundred miles-per-hour. Harry saw his second record broken by 'Strega', mere seconds before he overhauled 'Strega' and re-took the record speed. He'd put in three record speeds in one race. As the two aircraft approached pylon one, they were wing-tip to wing-tip, 'Strega' holding the racing line. Harry throttled back slightly and dipped the nose earthwards while flying into the corner on his port wing-tip. He was losing speed but he got an even tighter turn and avoided the P-51's wash.
Slamming open the throttle, he held his height, eyeing 'Strega', which was above him and to his starboard, turning across him into the back straight. Harry cursed and put the nose down again, diving towards the earth. He grinned slightly, nap-of-the-earth flying was his kind of thing.
"Racer six-six-six, you're crazy man!" yelled Strega's young pilot dumbly as he watched 'Spitting Fury' hurtling towards the earth at four-hundred miles-per-hour, and accelerating the whole way.
"Just as well, otherwise this would never work." Harry replied flippantly.
He turned into pylon four, a shallow turn, easing the aircraft through to pylon five at four-fifty miles-per-hour. At twenty feet. He kept pulling back steadily, past pylon five, glancing up at it as he passed. Pylon six also passed above and to his right, with the aircraft flying on its port side. Levelling out hard as the two aircraft raced through pylon seven, he quickly throttled back an inch and then slammed the lever back open, pushing more fuel into the cylinders than was normal, boosting the amount of bang he got.
The Mustang was higher and had further to travel to get start-finish line. The Sea Fury was lower and had less distance to travel but had not carried quite as much speed through due to his tighter turns. Harry couldn't believe what he was doing. From dead last to drag-racing for the title of National Unlimited Champion.
Above him, 'Strega' edged ahead in her dive, but the immense grunt of 'Spitting Fury' was pulling him to stay in the game. The Sea Fury's twin Bristol Centaurus engines weren't going to give in. The Sea Fury wasn't going to give in. Harry wasn't going to give in. He was at thirty feet. Pitching the nose down in a shallow descent, he kept pressing the boost and throttle levers as hard as he could, even knowing that they were already at one-hundred percent. There was no way in hell he wasn't going to give it his best. As one of his personal heroes once said.
"For Britain and for the hell of it!"
Harry muttered this as he checked the turn-and-slip, checked the artificial horizon, making sure he wasn't wasting an single bit of speed by sliding or ascending. He gently pitched the nose down towards the start-finish line. Given that he was at about thirty feet, this wasn't a great descent.
"Six-six-six, confirm onboard speed." barked a voice in his ear.
"Digital reads five-four-two-point-two. Confirm with telemetry." Harry rattled off.
"Confirmed."
Then the two aircraft roared past the start-finish line. From turning onto the straight to finishing the race had taken just ten seconds.
"All racers, all racers, circle and land, order is Spitting Fury, Strega, Rare Bear, Czech Mate, Ridge Runner, Dreadnought, Riff Raff, Fury and Bearcat." buzzed the radio; "Proceed to the stand, you will be marshalled in."
Harry grinned. That indicated that he had been ahead of Strega. Pulling up to five-hundred feet, which happened in seconds due to the immense speed he was carrying, he pulled through on a wider line past pylons one, two and three. Flying a straight line past the curving back straight, he lowered the air-speed sufficiently to lower his flaps and undercarriage. He passed pylon four and kept going. With enough room, he executed a neat one-eighty degree turn and lined up onto the start-finish straight which passed along the main runway.
Keeping the rudder at an angle, Harry lowered the nose slightly, bringing the Sea Fury in a side-slipping turn. He was bleeding off speed quickly, needing to lower the speed from what he had been carrying to a reasonable landing speed. Also, side-slipping allowed him to see past the immense cowling to the runway.
Easing the aircraft down, he felt a slight bump as he executed a perfect three-point landing. It was over. Harry flipped up his helmet sun-visor and blinked at the change. Brushing a glove over his forehead, he realised how much he'd sweated. Pushing back the canopy, he recoiled slightly from the air, seemingly cool as it hit him. He knew it was only because of his speed. Nevada summer air was like a furnace.
"So how does it feel, winning twice at the most high-performance motorsport?" asked an American journalist as Harry and Strega's pilot walked down the flight-line, both sipping from bottles of champagne. They had in fact crossed the line in a dead heat and had both been awarded the win.
"It's different." Harry smirked, eyes twinkling behind his aviator shades; "Still, little Steve here gave a good showing, for a scrawny teenager."
"Hey! I'm twenty-two!" protested Strega's pilot.
"Scrawny adult." he amended; "I admit I haven't had this much fun since an incident involving a large, very energetic pig, a gallon of tank grease and the Chief of the Defence Staff's ball."
"You didn't!" mock-gasped Steve, already having gauged his competitor.
"I did." Harry replied; "Come on, let's head back to our pits, my crew's got a fifty-gallon drum of proper beer, not that piss that you Yanks drink."
"Anyway, I heard words like 'Bristol' and 'Centaurus' as regards to your engine, but what the heck was it?" asked Steve curiously as they walked back towards the hulking form of the RAF C130.
"Basically we took two Centaurus engines, and welded the together to create a four-row hundred-and-seven point-two litre radial worth a bit over six-thousand horsepower. Obviously the aircraft is a lot heavier because we had to ballast the rear end to get a good centre of gravity." Harry explained.
He might have been a soldier ever since MI5 had attached him to the SAS in 1990, aged fifteen after the death of Tom Riddle, but flying was one of the things he loved.