He taxied to dispersal, ran the petrol out of the carburettor and switched off He unstrapped himself and climbed out of the cockpit. As he stood on the wing he felt his legs tremble.
He walked over to the hut, pulling off his headset, running a hand back through his hair. There was the smell of a coke brazier; there was an anxious red face in the light.
"How was it, Greg?"
"It was cold."
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...