Foundation, as the fulfilment of a life’s mission. ‘Aids,’ he announced, ‘is fast becoming a heterosexual disease.’ Mates, sold by shops at no profit, would halt ‘a problem which constitutes a crisis of monumental proportions. If it fails, I stand personally to lose many millions of pounds. But it’s a loss I’m prepared to accept because I care for the people who represent our future health, wealth and prosperity.’ No one challenged his sincerity.
As he rushed back to Boston, Branson was content that the public had accepted Virgin as a company crusading for humanity to prevent a plague. The new charity had won invaluable attention for himself. If the Virgin Atlantic Flyer successfully crossed the ocean, the publicity whirlwind was limitless.
The balloon’s take-off on 2 July 1987 was exhilarating. As he sat in the tiny capsule watching Per Lindstrand navigate and pilot a balloon larger than the Albert Hall along its unprecedented thirty-hour journey, Branson had every reason to celebrate his own courage and foresight. The radio reports confirmed that the take-off had been quite spectacular and that the sudden loss of two fuel tanks which risked exploding into a gigantic conflagration had added to the excitement. The bid to establish a record gave his life additional meaning and distinction. ‘How’s the media coverage?’ he asked ground control. ‘Fantastic,’ was the reply. Branson’s eyes tightened, gleaming with satisfaction. Everything was going to plan. His relationship with Lindstrand, a sombre hired hand, was polite and professional. There was limited warmth between them, which was Branson’s preference. Even in this perilous voyage, he could only tolerate a relationship of master and servant, although he took care to conceal that tension from the video camera fitted in the cramped capsule. Regularly, both he and Lindstrand activated the video to record their activities for a television documentary.
One particular touch before the departure appealed to Branson. Ostentatiously he had sat in the hotel cafeteria with two lawyers who had flown up from New York. ‘He’s making his last will,’ whispered Virgin’s publicists. Highlighting the possibility of death was drama. His public gamble against failure would certainly endear him to his many admirers, although in future he would remember, when asked whether he had written a will, to fidget, blush and hesitatingly reply, ‘I really do prefer to keep these things private.’
After twenty-nine hours in the air, the balloon hovered to land in Donegal, the first landfall on the west coast of Ireland. A succession of exposed video tapes had been individually placed in sealed plastic bags inside a red Virgin flight bag lying on the floor. A new cassette was recording as Lindstrand prepared the unprecedented manoeuvre required to jettison the fuel tanks and land the biggest balloon ever flown. Branson sat passively, not expecting the sudden gust of wind which flung the balloon to the ground, pulled it across a field before thrusting it up into the atmosphere. This was the beginning of genuine danger. The balloon’s cables were twisted, its fuel tanks were lost and Lindstrand was battling to bring his cavorting, twisting craft under control. As the Swede coolly drew on every ounce of strength and years of accumulated expertise, Branson exploded in terror. ‘We’re going to die,’ he screamed. ‘We’re going to fucking die.’ Pulling cables, firing the propane burner and trying to navigate, Lindstrand shouted back, ‘Control yourself! We will die if you don’t stop.’ But Branson had lost his self-control. At the critical moment, the daredevil was terrified. Frenzied, tears rolled down a face contorted by anxiety. Lindstrand’s choice was stark. Either he could hold on to the controls and allow Branson to rant, or he could take his hands off the levers and knock Branson unconscious. But the craft suddenly stabilised and Branson calmed. Lindstrand smiled. ‘That’ll look good,’ he nodded. Branson followed Lindstrand’s eye. His outburst had been recorded on the video. Branson’s face froze. His tantrum could be witnessed by the whole world. With ferocious energy, he ripped the cassette from the machine. Oblivious to the continuing peril, he stamped frenziedly on the plastic box, pulling out the tape to destroy the evidence.
Glancing up from the mangled tape on the floor, Branson saw Lindstrand. During those moments, the Swede had battled to steer the balloon downwards towards a beach. At the last moment, the craft hit the sea and skimmed across the choppy surface, violently tumbling its two passengers. ‘Get out,’ shouted Lindstrand. The pilot heaved himself through the hatch and plunged into the waves. Branson hesitated and drew back, paralysed by fear. Seconds later the balloon soared upwards. The chance of escape had disappeared. His only reassurance was the sight of seventeen helicopters clinging behind him, led by Garfield Kennedy, the television documentary producer. But once the balloon passed through the clouds, he could only hope that the flotilla would remain somewhere near. Heading north across the Irish Sea, Branson’s options had deteriorated. He could either hope to land in Scotland or parachute into the watery wilderness. For a trainee prevented by Lindstrand from touching the controls during the flight, the predicament was horrendous, especially after he mistakenly assumed that none of the seven radios or the emergency locator transmitter was working. He believed he was almost certainly doomed and scribbled a farewell note to Joan and his children. Leaving the note in the capsule, he planned to parachute into the sea, and opened the door. Quickly, he abandoned the idea and for nearly thirty minutes struggled to close the door. Exhausted, he peered out and saw a Royal Navy helicopter and a destroyer, alerted while on an exercise. Manoeuvring the balloon downwards, he hauled himself up through the small hatch at the top of the capsule and plunged into the sea. He was soon rescued. One hour later, Lindstrand, suffering from hypothermia, was also pulled to safety.
During the helicopter ride to Kilmarnock in Scotland, Branson’s sense of priorities was restored. He had successfully won the world record. The publicity prize was secure. Quickly, he persuaded a member of the crew to lend him an alluring red jump suit. As he stepped from the plane on to the tarmac, a waiting crowd rushed to hail the hero. Behind, huddled and shivering in a grey blanket, hobbled Lindstrand.
The headlines surpassed Branson’s dreams. A wave of accolades verging on worship overwhelmed Lindstrand’s courageous passenger. In countless British and American newspapers and television interviews, Branson spoke through his smiles with seeming modesty mentioning, ‘How I flew the Atlantic.’ The pilot was forbidden by their contract to interrupt. ‘The publicity would have cost £45 million,’ Branson later laughed. ‘Even the cover of Newsweek!’ The epic trip had crowned a superstar. Those allowed close were, in an almost religious manner, awed.
Abandoned on the capsule was the evidence on the videos of his terror. Strangely, when the capsule was recovered later that day, none of the video cassettes was found. ‘Where are they?’ asked Lindstrand. ‘I left them on the capsule,’ replied Branson. ‘The cassettes were the only items missing,’ replied Lindstrand suspecting that Branson had jettisoned the tapes into the sea to destroy the evidence of his terror. After all, even his farewell letter to his wife was found. Two years later the letter was auctioned by a charity for £2,500. Even his most private emotions were available for publicity.
The hero wanted to rejoice. At his parents’ house in Shamley Green, Branson hosted a party to thank all those who had worked for more than one year preparing the balloon crossing. Standing near the swimming pool, Branson talked animatedly with his father Ted, glancing regularly at the garden door. Suddenly, to a burst of music, it was thrown open. Eve Branson, his sixty-three-year-old mother shrieked her arrival. Dressed as Michael Jackson, the singer, his mother’s face was painted black, she wore a black suit and white gloves, and stood with her arms outstretched beckoning applause. Instead there was an awkward titter. ‘Oh my God,’ murmured the crowd.
The moment passed and Branson prepared himself for his speech and the presentations. Four golden medallions hanging from gold necklaces had been specially manufactured for four women who had worked exhaustively throughout the year. Among the four who had been told in advance they would receive the necklaces was Ali Yates, Branson’s project co-ordinator. She had not taken one day’s holiday for eighteen months. Her unselfish loyalty, working eighteen hours a day without any extra pay, had damaged her health. Despite her devotion, she had recently sensed Branson’s inexplicable hostility. One week earlier, at another party, he had ordered her to hand over a special Virgin Atlantic jacket made only for the balloon team to Joan Thirkettle, the ITN journalist. In Sugarloaf Mountain, Thirkettle, an attractive, serious woman, had edged unusually close to Branson, especially after preparing his obituary in case the balloon