Climate change scientists have been recently accused of fiddling data to suit their own agendas.
Whilst in 1943, testing toxic gas in RAF fighter jets was possible. Why not in 2009?
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/norfolk/8389727.stm
Well, at least the Climate groups have some data to fiddle.
Meanwhile, it is less than 100 days before Cranfield University MUST publish their ‘urgent’ data on which chemicals and concentrations are in Public Transport Airline Fume Events.
That’s if anybody is interested in what’s in the air they breathe whilst flying? If you are not interested, that is fine but any missing data should be construed as seriously inconvenient news which somebody somewhere - doesn’t wish to be known.
Any sign of organophosphates found ‘one day’ (which have NO SAFE LEVEL OF EXPOSURE) should be viewed as ‘perverting the course of justice’.
http://news.bbc.co.uk/today/hi/today/newsid_8270000/8270978.stm
100 days and counting…
Most would acknowledge that it would take about a week maximum for even an incompetent scientist to measure such chemicals and their concentrations – 2 1/2 years is just – useless?
Meanwhile, in 1943 during the dark years of World War Two, the RAF were able to measure carbon monoxide (CO) in front line fighter jets.
An extract from Fly for your life a true story of Battle of Britain fighter ace Wing commander Robert Stanford Tuck D.S.O D.F.C and two bars by Larry Forrester. Tuck was renowned for his good luck. Tuck’s luck.
They were having a little teething trouble with the Hawker Typhoons; Carbon monoxide fumes were coming back from the stub exhausts into the cockpit, sometimes in sufficient quantities to nauseate the pilots. The boffins came and tinkered with the exhausts and said they thought they had reduced the amount of fumes. To make sure, they fitted in the cockpit of one machine a little box which could measure the exact percentage of carbon monoxide in the air inside the cabin. They asked for a number of test flights: Prosser Hanks did most, Tuck did a few. There seemed to be a definite improvement.
One day towards the end of the test programme, he was walking out to the test Typhoon with his parachute over his shoulder when an airman stuck his head out of the window and called “Telephone, Sir!” At that moment the ground crew finished their starting drill and the Typhoon’s huge Napier Sabre engine exploded into life: if she wasn’t taken off quickly she would overheat. He signalled that he couldn’t take the call and continued out to the aircraft, but the airman came running after him and bawled through cupped hands: “It’s the Station Commander, Sir. Say’s its very important!”
He groaned, dumped his chute and started back. At the door of the dispersal hut stood one of his best pilots, a young Argentinian named Dack. This boy had flown one or two of the tests. “Dacky, you take her. You know the drill.” The kid nodded, grabbed his gear and hurried out as Tuck lifted the phone.
Group Captain Mac Donald wanted to discuss arrangements for night flying during the coming week. It was important, but it could have waited an hour or so. They talked for perhaps ten minutes, then Tuck went out and sat in one of the cane chairs, smoking and looking out over the fields.
Out of the hazy blue he saw a Typhoon diving. It didn’t pull out. It disappeared behind some trees about a mile on the other side and raised a tremendous cone of flame and smoke.
He rode out with the crash trucks. A big, smoking crater and a field littered with scraps of metal. Twelve feet down in the brown earth: the remains of the big engine. Of the pilot: only little red lumps, half a shoe, scraps of clothing, part of a watch strap.
A check with control proved it could only be Dack. There had been no enemy activity all day, so he hadn’t been shot down. The cause of his death might always be a mystery, because there wasn’t enough left of his machine to give the technical experts a clue.
But the Aviation Medical people solved it. They found a piece of Dack’s liver and analysed the contents: enough carbon monoxide to kill an elephant.
Probably something had gone wrong with the Boffins little box. Instead of trapping the fumes it must have pumped out enough to make the pilot pass out.
There but for the grace of a ‘phone call…He got through to Group Captain MacDonald and in a quiet, earnest tone said: “Sir, I want you to know you can ring me up just any time.”
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