A tug is pulling the Albatross out of the hanger prior to her being filled with liquid hydrogen. The passengers have been disembarked and moved as far away as possible to a nearby hanger just in case anything goes wrong. Those few who have chosen to stay here are there as well; though they have separated themselves into a distinct group. I spoke with them all earlier, just to be sure they understood that once the passengers had boarded while the ship was on the runaway and the cabin doors closed prior to our takeoff rollout there would be no stopping. We would be leaving them behind to face whatever fate awaited them here. They all had their good reasons for staying, but I did feel an emotional wrench seeing the child and his mother I showed the flight deck to among them. I really hope they can somehow get to the Eastern Federated States and be reunited as a family once more.

Bryan and Gloria are aboard going through the preflight checklists and monitoring the fuelling. I'll take over from Gloria when the time comes to launch, She's a perfectly capable pilot, but Bryan and I have the most experience: We've talked it over and she understands, as well as agrees with my decision. I think she's relieved not to have the responsibility for the lives of all aboard in her hands.

Arnglis and I are watching, standing out of the wind, just inside the hanger at the edge of the door as Albatross is eased slowly out.

Scrolls in hand we're going through the launch plan a final time.

"Once we're airborne, what will you do?" I ask him.

"The crew and I will take a bus and drive to Reykjavik. Before we go we'll let them know where to find those three." He nods back to the portakabin where Haradursson and the sky cops lie bound and unconscious. "We all live in Reykjavik and have family there; they need us now. Our work here is finished." He says with a startling finality.

"I hope it all turns out well for you." I reply, watching the tankers drive alongside the delta: Well practised workers clad in protective cryosuits make quick work of connecting the hoses. "Thanks for your help!"

"What else could I do?" He sighs. "If this really is a global catastrophe, the least I can do is help you out; to try to preserve the ideals of civilisation to the very end. You understand?"

"Yes, I think I do."

We watch in contemplative silence as the filling is completed​, and the passengers embarked. Bryan's voice fizzing out of Bórasson's radio breaks the spell; we're ready to go.

Arnglis and I shake hands before I jog over to the blimp's emergency stairs. Even in the lee of the hanger the rising wind has a bitterly cold edge to it. In the few tens of seconds it takes me to run across it slices mercilessly through my uniform, chilling me. I'm relieved to get inside. Gloria vacates her seat, which I take over and strap myself in. In the other Bryan is occupied monitoring the hydrogen systems; he'll also be manually spreading and filling the wing while I control the takeoff.

"How's the overview?" I ask; even though I can see that most of the readouts are in the green broken by a few amber and red lights. The engineers have disabled as many of the alarms and no-go interlocks as they dare without delving too deeply into the systems, but I'm still expecting to hear a cacophony of protests when we make our move. The virch displays are red, or completely dark. Under normal circumstances those few anomalies would be reason enough to postpone the flight until they'd been resolved, but now we'll happily ignore them. We just want to get out of here.

"As good as we're likely to get!" He replies.

"Anything you can see?" I call back to Gloria as she buckles in to a fold down seat in the crew section. She'll be acting as an extra pair of eyes on, now that we can't fully trust the Albatross' systems.

"No; if I spot anything I'll be sure to let you know!"

"Thanks." I reply, wryly.

I can hear the murmurings of the passengers being settled in by the cabin crew.

"Is the outer crew compartment door secure?" I ask Gloria.

Yes, but do you think it's a good idea to keep it that way? Just in case we crash..."

That gives me reason to think. "Yes, keep it locked. We don't want anyone deciding they want to get off at the last minute and breaking in. We don't have the gas to spare." As it is we'll be flying below our safe minimum load, but it's just another thing we've had to conveniently put out of mind.

The intercom pings, Stefan tells me everyone in the back is seated and ready.

"OK; check cabin doors are latched. They'll be on manual until we're safely flying. We're about to roll."

"Check."

I give the instrument panels a final check. "Are you all ready?" Both Bryan and Gloria answer with a simultaneous "Affirm."

"Then let's get out of here!"

We're towed out onto the taxiway. Even though the Albatross is sandwiched between the two hydrogen tankers for weight and shelter, the strengthening wind begins to rock us badly even before our empty wing has been deployed. I'm beginning to have second thoughts about trying to launch.

I grab the hand held radio Arnglis gave to me for coordinating the launch. "Guys, we'll need to remain tethered to your trucks while we deploy the wing and fill it; can you drive as far away from us as possible to provide some more tension on the cables while still remaining connected?" Bórasson translates our request to the drivers and replies on their behalf.

"Affirmative."

The tankers draw slowly away; hopefully the extra tension will hold us down that bit longer.

Now comes the part I'm dreading; the moment we declare our intention to the control tower. I'm surprised they've not already noticed the activity on the taxiway, but then we've been using the ground crew's hand held radios in order not to use their frequency and so alert them sooner than need be to our plan. With there being no inbound traffic I'm aware of and the airport closed, perhaps they've stood down for the moment, or gone to look for something to eat. Nether the less I must be sure before I commit myself.

"Albatross to Keflavik Control; do you have any inbound traffic or planned takeoffs at this time?"

There is a pause, then "Keflaivk to Albatross; negative on inbound or outbound movements." The tower sounds confused about our asking the question.

"Understood. Albatross out."

I switch off the radio. I don't need it on anymore and I'll be occupied enough as it is without trying to ignore the tower's order to abort my takeoff when they realise what I'm doing.

Pressing the push-to-talk on the handheld I let Arnglis and his crew know we're ready.

"OK Bryan, spread wing and stand by to gas on my mark."

"Ready!"

"Ready... Mark!" Bryan flicks the manual switches and the display shows the wing opening.

"Gassing now." The analogue dials on in the central console confirm the liquid hydrogen is flowing up the umbilical tubes and into the wing cells.

As the wing inflates to the preset aerodynamic profile the ground crew will refill the pressurised tanks. Already I can feel the ship becoming more buo
yant, a fact confirmed by the instruments. I push the control yoke forward, hoping it will force our nose down.

"Ready for engine start."

"Ready." For their safety the ground crew will disconnect the cables attaching us to their heavy trucks before we start the jets and thrusters. Arnglis confirms the fact via radio. "All cables and fuel lines disconnected; Albatross you are free to fly!"

"Understood, and thanks!"

With the ground crew safely clear the jets can be started. As well as their thrust from their exhaust the jets' generators will provide the power for the omnithruster pods; we'll need all the speed from wherever we can get it to get airborne. Once throttled up to full emergency power and then beyond, I release the wheel brakes. Slowly Albatross rolls forward.

"Gas the wing to 70%!" I order Bryan.

"Filling at maximum rate." He replies in his irritatingly unruffled way.

If will could be converted into forward velocity we'd be flying by now; but instead we've yet to exceed a ground speed of 65kph. The white stripes of the runway centreline pass too lazily under our nose; we're building momentum too slowly. At this rate we'll never get aloft, but just trundle along while the wind rocks the wing against the emergency outrigger wheels. I'm concerned our calculations are somehow badly out, and that all we are doing is making it easy for an errant gust to flip us over. However any thoughts I may have about aborting the takeoff vanish when Bórasson's walkie talkie fizzes a warning.

"Albatross; check behind you!"

Quickly I switch to the rear cameras. There in the distance but getting rapidly closer are what looks like several airport police cars pursuing us, their lights flashing angrily. What do they think they can do? Attempt to cut us off and force us to abort our rollout? They're more likely to cause a disaster that way!

Angrily snapping the radio back on I berate the tower. "Keflavik control from Albatross; cease your pursuit. I repeat cease your pursuit! We are committed to takeoff: I repeat committed to takeoff!"

"Albatross; you are denied takeoff clearance. Repeat; denied takeoff clearance. Abort your takeoff and return to the hanger!"

Obviously the Haradursson faction are still in charge despite the absence of their leader, and the airport police are still gaining on us. Another thirty seconds will see them drawing level, then ahead and in a blocking position; but by then we'll both be running out of room to stop on the shortening runaway.

"Keflavik control; if you continue your pursuit you will be responsible for the consequences. I will report your actions to the European Air Safety Authority. We Are Leaving!" With that I flick off their protests.

"Bryan; blow all of our gas into the wing now, then give me every last thing the jets have - damage acceptable. Dump 50% of the water ballast!"

I push the throttles of the omnithrusters all the way to the stops as Bryan does as I order, overspeeding them may add that fraction more power we need to get airborne but still it appears to have no effect. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the flashing lights of one of the police cars drawing alongside, its keening siren audible over the roaring of the wind, while ahead the end of the runway and the perimeter fence appears close enough to reach out and touch. I must either stop and surrender, or continue; gambling with all of our lives. In fact there's no decision to make. Both the police and I now have no chance of stopping in time.

"Stand by for wing deployment!"

Bryan looks at me with astonishment, then realises my intent.

"Ready!"

I've no time to waste; here goes nothing. Firmly grasping the mechanical release handle I squeeze in the locking safety button while pulling on it decisively. There's a thump as the latches unlock, a moment of silence, then the high-pitched whirring of the tether spools unwinding as the wind catches the wing. The tethers soon reach their limit, and then what I hope for happens. With a loud flapping snap amid a chorus of screams from the passenger compartment, and a violence the built in shock absorbers have no hope of attenuating, Albatross is suddenly jolted upward. At once I raise the landing gear. I must be mad to do so while only just buoyant in the few metres of ground effect but I hope their retraction and stowage will clean our aerodynamic profile by just enough to get us really flying. With the gear thunking home I have to get the bird back under control, for we are being blown backwards and sideways across the airport. Right now we are no more in charge of our fate than a loose leaf cast aloft on a gust; in fact it is an exact analogy of our situation - except that should we again touch the green tinged, rough grey rocks which are the ground in these parts, ours will be far from a gentle kiss of a landing.

Frantically heaving on the control yoke I'm flying on intuition, only partially daring to trust the WINDAR display projected onto the windscreen. From that perspective the gusts buffeting us appear to be diffuse grey shaded streams of incoherent smoke; capricious wraiths which could throw us violently back down to earth at any moment. We must battle our way up and out of the turbulent ground level winds and gain some height before our luck runs out.

"All gas reserves committed." States Bryan, matter of factly. "Buoyancy positive point one-six and steady." We've played our desperate hand; now we shall see if it is a winner or a busted flush. The Low Fuel Critical warning tone beeps insistently, informing us the H-jets will begin their automatic shut down within sixty seconds. Bryan preemptively closes the throttles and powers both engines down.

With excruciating slowness we gain precious meters of altitude. Each hopeful but bruising updraft has to be fought for, prised from the cold fingered clutches of uncooperative fate, but still we rise, by single, then multiples, and finally tens of meters. We might just get away with it this time.

Then, with a stomach dropping lurch, we begin to stall.

It's as if the wind which had been supporting us has suddenly vanished. Instantly we're plummeting downwards. All I can do is to push the control yoke forward and go with the dive in the hope that the air speeding around the wing can be translated into some sort of lift when I try to pull out. With the ground swelling in the windscreen and my view of its features becoming ever more detailed I can't wait any longer, I must try to climb out now, hoping that the harsh equations of aerodynamics will swing in my favour. It feels as if the stiffening yoke has become impossible to move, yet with tortuous slowness I heave it all the way back. Almost skimming the ground we swoop back upwards, and fortunately run into another lifting air mass. I feel as a surfer being borne up the face of a massive, invisible breaker; rising, rising, rising upward. I'm too preoccupied in flying to be distracted by the altitude displayed on the windscreen, and in any case it doesn't matter; I'm judging my height by the view of Keflavik airport. Just as long as it continues to shrink, that will be fine.

"Altitude 600 metres and rising at a hundred per minute. Keep it up Skipper!" reassures Bryan. Desperately scrabbling our way up this ramp of lift, I hope we can soar our way up to the more stable mid level winds. At least it may give us some time and room to manoeuvre if we get caught out again.

"Albatross! Are you OK?" Arnglis' distorted voice blurts weakly out of the radio clipped to my chest pocket.

I've got enough altitude now to safely reply to him. "Yes; we're OK now. It was touch and go for a while, but we're flying now."

"Jesus man! We were certain you were going to crash! That was some astonishing flying you did!"

"How about you? How did you make it out without being arrested?"

"The cops didn't want to mix it with our trucks; they gave up and let us turn around towards the nearest perimeter gate. They've gone to rescue their mates; zoom your camera in at the end of the runaway!"

Bryan does as he is bid and part of the display shows the scene. Two of the police cars obviously couldn't stop in time. One tried a sharp turn but ended up flipping and being caught by the fence, while the other continued on, driving straight through it. The FlexiFence did exactly as it was designed to do; stretching and slowing the car to a safe halt. Now it and it's occupants are trapped inside an elongated pocket of stretched diamond mesh netting. A fire truck and ambulance have arrived on scene and the crew are busy trying to cut the vehicle free; no easy task given the toughness of the material.

"So they have their hands full! We're on the road below you now!" Our camera pans to show a convoy of two cars, a bus, and a hydrogen tanker speeding toward Reykjavik.

"I'm glad you made it out! I wish I could tell you more about what lies ahead for you but we're not high enough to see anything, and I doubt if our cameras could see much through the smoke." There's no point in telling them the raw truth of the matter; they're bound to find the facts about their families' survival - whatever they may be - soon enough.

"Yes, I understand." His voice is beginning to fade. Either we're reaching the maximum range of the hand-helds or maybe the batteries in mine are running low. "We'll have to stop transmitting soon. Albatross, we're praying for you. Have a safe flight!"

"Thanks for helping us." I respond, trying to swallow a lump which has bulged in my throat. "Hopefully this will be just a short term thing from which we can recover. If we can we'll let you know how we get on. We wish you the best of luck. Albatross out!"

I think, I hope, I was able to transmit the message before the radio ran out of power. The silence in the flight deck which follows is rendered especially poignant now as we are only too aware that Reykjavik ahead of us - still wreathed by sinuous, thick columns of dark smoke - is where Arnglis and his crew's loved ones are to found. Perhaps it is their burning homes or remains which will provide the fuel for the giant thermal we'll use to ride up to the stratosphere. I'm feeling queasy at the thought.

"Gloria, can you take over my seat for a while? And Bryan, you can tell everyone we're no longer in any danger of crashing. I've got to go aft for a while."