A bit of “Goshawk” – flying from danger in an experimental jet designed by the hero, 
named Goshawk:
“Roger, Tower, copy cleared takeoff runway Two Romeo.”
Again pushing her throttle yoke forward slightly and giving her right engine slightly more juice, David coaxed Goshawk to the left and out onto Runway 2R, feeling the seam of the concrete pavement thump under her rubber tires. Together, David and Marja quickly finished the remainder of their checklist, an ever-so-faiuet on the near edge of darkness.
“Cycle slats!” Marja ordered
“Check slats cycled and extended,” David confirmed. “Full throttle both engines!” Marja demanded.
“Indicates FIREWALL throttles,” David replied doggedly, jamming both throttle levers past their normal full-power range into their forward stops. With a sense of growing excitement, he watched both engine tachometers lurch into the red danger zone. His life on the line, David knew there was no reason to be timid any longer. He had to reclaim the initiative.
Goshawk’s nose yawed under the strain of her screeching jet engines, beyond their limits.
“Release brakes! We are going!” Marja squealed gaily. “Brakes released.”
Goshawk slipped her leash and bounded down the oil-spotted tarmac, pushing David sharply back into his seat. Rows of purple lights recessed into the runway’s surface began to rush, then flutter past. Goshawk accelerated quickly, like a smooth, dark stone skipping across the glittering snowfield toward night’s enveloping blackness. Even in the depths of his sadness, David couldn’t contain his exhilaration. He was tired of being a punching bag.
“Mark 80 knots!” Marja’s voice called out. “108 knots, here comes VI. Mark VI. Point of no return. We must now take off. Coming up on V2. Mark V2, 121 knots. We are ready to takeoff, David.”
“Rotating,” he responded, pulling back ever so slightly on the yoke between his knees. The lavender blur of lights embedded in the runway beneath Goshawk began to sink slowly into an inky pool of darkness, stayed for only a fleeting moment by the solar pulse of her underbelly beacon.
“Wheels up!” Marja directed.
“Wheels coming up,” David confirmed, his remark punctuated by a loud clunk. “Wheels up and locked.”
“Polish Postal 261, Vantaa Tower, come left to 159°. Switch to Helsinki approach frequency. Proceed 22,000 feet. Acknowledge, over.”
“Roger, Tower, Polish Postal 261, coming left to 159°, proceeding 22,000 feet on flight plan to Gdansk. Switching to Helsinki approach frequency. Tak, Vantaa.”
