'Whiskey Zulu, what is your altitude?'

'You tell me.' Whatever the altimeter said was a lie; it just couldn't keep pace. Now it was rushing down through 7,500.

'Whiskey Zulu, maintain climb to flight level 80.' The voice was clear and clean; thunderstorms don't meddle with the highest frequencies.

We hit bottom with a thump, but stayed there for the moment. I shuffled us back into a gentle climb on a heading of 320; already the wind was rougher than I'd expected, so I was probably being blown right off track. Almost ahead, the radar showed a bright line between two storm cells. If I could slide through there…

The wings rocked and I tried not to fight the heavy ailerons. The nose jolted around in a circle, swaying five degrees either side of my heading. But at least we weren't in a lift-shaft. I snatched a look at my watch and I'd been airborne ten minutes.

Say the front was moving at 25 knots, then it had crept four miles closer to Ben Gurion. And I'd started with it ten miles away, so… another five minutes. I'd hold out for that.

The radar went out.

Just dead. I reached and twiddled but it stayed blank. Maybe the last jolting had finally parted a loose connection. Hell.

But now, at last, I was about on 8,000.1 let the nose sag and the speed come up – but I wasn't trying for my planned 170 knots. You hit this sort of turbulence as slow as you dare. I set 30 inches boost and 2,500 revs.

Tel Aviv, Whiskey Zulu at flight level 80. My weather radar has gone unserviceable. Over.'

'Whiskey Zulu, do you want clearance to return?'

'Negative. I'll keep trying. It should – Jesus Christ! '

The aeroplane was on its side. Just like that.

'Wrong frequency, Whiskey Zulu. We're all Jews down here.'

I twisted the yoke and pushed the nose down. For seconds, she hung there shuddering, lightning exploded on the windscreen, and at last we fell off in a swerving plunge.

Then up again. The needle hit the stop at just over 4,000 feet/min and the altimeter blurred as it spun. My heading – the hell with the heading, what about the speed? It was down to a sick 95 and if we tipped again we'd stall. I rammed the nose down, throttles up.

The engine noise suddenly vanished in a roar like a waterfall – and it was. The windscreen flooded; water sputtered explosively in at the tight-shut side windows and over my lap.

The lift-shaft reversed and we fell. I was jerked off my seat, my sunglasses lifted out of my pocket, bounced off my cheek and on to the roof. The wind computer rose out of my open briefcase, hung weirdly in the air, then smashed down again as we bottomed out with a slam that set the whole instrument panel shaking in its mount.

That did it. 'Tel Aviv, Whiskey Zulu request return clearance.' My voice sounded clenched.

'Whiskey Zu… to turn… up omnirad…7,000 feet…'

Oh no. 'Tel Aviv please say again.' But my own voice was jumping in and out of an echo chamber. The radio was packing up.

I tried to hold the aeroplane with one hand while I reached to change to the second set. And be damned to a clearance anyway. I was turning around.

I pushed into a gentle left turn. Into a storm cell or away from one?

The second VHP set came in clear: '… do you read? Over.'

Tel Aviv: Whiskey Zulu. I have one comm failure. Please say again my clearance.'

'Whiskey Zulu, are you declaring an emergency?'

Am I saying I'm beaten, I quit? In public?

Tel Aviv – any traffic?'

'Negative, Whiskey Zulu.' So at least no mid-air collision.

Then just clear me.'

Formally: 'Whiskey Zulu cleared to turn left pick up 336 omni radial descend to 7,000 feet.'

It was time to make my confession complete. Tel Aviv, my VOR and ILS have also gone unserviceable.'

And then I knew what it was all about. I reached my toes beyond the rudder pedals and touched the brakes. No resistance at all. The first bump of the storm had shaken off my carefully jammed-on reservoir cap; now a whole tide of the foul stuff was sloshing around every box of electronics in the nose.

'Whiskey Zulu, still no emergency?" He sounded faintly incredulous.

'Allright, then. Whiskey Zulu, Pan, Pan, Pan. Now are you happy?' But I'd still compromised by making it only an 'urgency' call. 'I have located my trouble, anyhow. Brake fluid leaking into the avionics. So I could lose this comm set and my ADF's at any time. Also no brakes. Request radar assistance.'

'Whiskey Zulu, stand by.'

By now I was heading roughly 145 and for the moment the vertical currents weren't too bad. It was like being dragged downstairs on your bottom, but no worse than that. And I was going out a lot faster than I'd come in; now I'd got a major component of the wind behind me, and my ground speed must have gone up a good eighty knots. – Tel Aviv came back. 'Whiskey Zulu, are you getting a useful reading on your ADF?'

'Negative.'

'Whiskey Zulu, steer 148 degrees, maintain 7,000 feet until overhead Bravo Golf November beacon. Change to Ben Gurion Approach, 120.5.'

'Whiskey Zulu.' They'd bring me over the airport, turn me around so I could let down in the holding pattern on the coastline, then back in a sweeping plunge for the runway.

'Ben Gurion Approach, Whiskey Zulu. What is your latest actual?'

'Whiskey Zulu, stand by.' Was it as bad beneath as I wanted it?

'Whiskey Zulu: wind 280 gusting 50 knots, visibility 300 metres in heavy rain, two octas six hundred feet, eight octas eight hundred feet. Understand you may suffer total electrical failure any time.'

'Something like that.'

'Understand you have no brakes. Is your marker receiver okay?'

'Don't know. Haven't been over any markers recently.'

'Whiskey Zulu, stand by.'

I knew what was worrying them. Me, too. The weather on the deck was as bad as I'd hoped for: just possible for an ILS approach but still dicey. I could come below cloud safely on a timed descent from the outer marker, but I'd still be going exactly the wrong way. Then I'd have to do a procedure turn at 500 feet in 300 metres visibility and an erratic strong wind to find the runway again. I was prepared to try.

They weren't. Not with my last radio likely to blow at any moment.

'Whiskey Zulu, unless you declare a full emergency do not repeat not attempt to land at Ben Gurion International. Divert to Jerusalem; weather there is still in visual limits.'

The aircraft heaved like a sick stomach and hit a patch of hail that clammered on the roof like road drills. A ball almost ping-pong size broke on the screen, jammed in the wiper and dissolved slowly.

'I suppose so.' I said, trying to sound reluctant. 'Will you notify Nicosia?'

'Wilco, Whiskey Zulu. Maintain 148 and we'll turn you on the beacon for Jerusalem. Go and crack up ontheir runway.'

'Repeat, please?'

'Shalom.'

Four minutes later I swam into vivid calm sunshine just fifteen miles from the eternal city. And the best thing was, I hadn't even suggested the idea myself.