by James Blatch
The aircraft flew across a flattish area of plain between two sets of hills. They were about to enter Snowdonia.
He retrieved the chart from the side of his seat and checked the route. The computer had taken them slightly away from the intended path, but that was part of its method; it would choose the best route and get them to the fixed waypoints.
A large wood passed underneath; the ground became more undulating. The aircraft rocked and bumped as the autopilot responded to the instructions from the computer.
Three more minutes.
He thought about where he would command the system to go back to one thousand feet. He wanted to be level and avoid asking for height changes while banked.
He turned the chart over in his hands. His eyes searched ahead of the aircraft’s track, looking for a feature he could use to initiate the climb.
Typically, they were flying toward a fold in the paper. He opened the map up, orientating it to show a good thirty miles ahead, then refolded it.
“Something up?” Speedy asked, leaning across, peering at the chart.
“No, I just—”
There was a loud bang. Rob smashed down into his seat. The chart fell from his hands as a violent, crushing weight forced his body ever lower. His helmet struck something hard, and his sight began to turn grey. He felt woozy.
The aircraft creaked around him. He struggled to get upright, to see clearly, to urgently assess the situation.
The g-force subsided. He pushed himself back up in his seat.
Looking out, all he could see was sky.
“What’s happening?”
As he regained full vision, his eyes darted to the artificial horizon; they were seventy degrees nose up, and rolling.
Shit.
Speedy shouted something at him.
Was he injured?
They must have hit something.
No hesitation, Rob.
He grabbed the stick and hit the cancel button.
Nothing changed.
“Groundstrike!”
He finally resolved what Speedy was yelling.
The sky outside was replaced by green and yellow hills as the aircraft rolled all the way over.
They were upside down, and still rolling.
Another loud bang behind them; it sounded like the main spar.
The aircraft was about to break up.
He and Speedy were hanging in their straps, with the Welsh hills above them. They couldn’t even eject now.
Shit. SHIT.
But they had some height on their side.
Rob stared at the Guiding Light panel; it showed all nines. It was useless now, with the laser pointed into the sky. The altimeter needle seemed to be around two thousand five hundred feet.
But they were coming back down.
He tried the stick again, and the rudder pedals.
“Nothing’s working!”
He looked at the engine gauges; both the port side engines had wound down. They only had thrust on the starboard side.
He closed all four throttles, hoping to restore balance.
Keep working, he said to himself.
But there was no emergency drill to cover this.
He could shut down the broken engines, but that would take time and wouldn’t achieve anything.
They needed to roll upright.
He snapped the braking parachute handle to STREAM.
There was a jolt, and the rolling seemed to slow.
“Damn!” He switched the lever to RELEASE, praying the roll rate would pick up again.
The green grass and rocks grew larger as the Vulcan hurtled downwards.
The stick still moved in his hands, but had no noticeable effect on the aircraft.
THINK!
He stabbed the ABANDON AIRCRAFT button to light up the notice in the back for Bright and Millie.
“GET OUT! GET OUT!” he shouted over the intercom.
An enormous bang.
Light filled the cockpit.
It took Rob a beat to register what had happened.
The canopy was gone.
“Speedy! No!” he shouted, but it was too late.
He shielded his face against a burst of orange flame as Speedy’s seat fired out of the aircraft.
The roll rate had increased.
Finally, they were coming through ninety degrees back to upright.
It was his only chance to live: to eject while the aircraft was the correct way up.
He wrenched his head around and looked back.
“GET OUT! GET OUT!” he screamed again.
Steve Bright stood over the hatch, but Millie was on the ground, trying to get back up.
Rob glanced forward. He estimated they were at six hundred feet.
This was it.
A terrible, awful dread filled him.
There was nothing he could do, unless he chose to die with them.
It was an option.
He looked back a final time.
“Get up, Millie!”
Rob’s voice was weak and broken.
They were now too low.
Millie stared at him, terrified eyes wide above his oxygen mask.
Blood leaked from a gash on his forehead.
“Please, Millie.” His voice croaked. “Please get out. Please.”
He broke eye contact, turned around, and saw the last two seconds of his life as a collection of grey rocks and yellow flowers raced towards them.
Yellow life amid grey death.
I have to live.
His hand went down to the ejection handle.
Did he even have the strength to pull it?
He felt the kick as the seat erupted upwards.
He blacked out.
Emily Triggs tapped a pencil on the desk and considered her options.
She cross-checked the flying programme.
Evergreen-four-two was now twenty-five minutes overdue.
Up in the glass-house at the top of the control tower, she had an unobstructed view of the airfield and a few miles around. She scanned the skies, but there was no white Vulcan.
She reported it to the senior air traffic controller, who reached for his binoculars and confirmed they were not in sight.
The SATCO leaned over her shoulder to check the record of aircraft movements.
“It definitely took off, sir. I remember it. Vulcan XH441, four persons on board.”
“It may have diverted, can you call TFU, see if they’ve heard anything from the crew? It would, of course, be typical of them to keep us in the dark.”
She picked up one of three telephones and dialled the operations desk at the Test Flying Unit.
A flapping noise, like sheets being shaken out of a bedroom window.
Rob was on a hard surface, his eyes closed.
Birdsong. Cheery whistles filled the air, along with the strange flapping.
An orange glow formed through his eyelids. He tried to open them, but the sunlight was too much.
His head was heavy. He reached up, and with his eyes still shut, pulled his flying helmet off.
Rolling onto his side, he felt a sharp pain in his lower back.
He inched open his eyes, allowing his pupils to adjust.
His head pounded.
He had no idea how much time had passed.
The flapping sound came from above. He craned his head to see his parachute rippling in the breeze.
The straps tugged at him. He rolled onto his back and fumbled with the five-point harness, twisting until it released with a clunk. The pressure on his legs disappeared.
He lay still, facing up, watching the thin clouds gently rove across the sky.
Images formed in his mind. Unwanted, intrusive images.
The final few seconds of the flight.
Chaotic and violent.
He shut his eyes tight and waited for the moment to pass.
To distract him from the visions, he focused on practicalities.
He pushed himself up ont
o his elbows.
He was in a relatively flat field on the bottom of a slope. There was no sign of the jet or Speedy Johnson.
Twisting around, he saw a plume of black smoke rising beyond the hill.
Another image entered his mind.
Millie, wide-eyed, staring at him.
He searched the memory for a sign of forgiveness in those brown eyes. But he saw only terror.
An abject, appalling terror; the type only a condemned man knows.
He lay back down, not wanting to leave this place, not wanting to face reality.
The parachute continued to flap, drifting across the craggy land.
The birds continued their song.
Eventually, the sound of a vehicle engine carried across the field.
Reality was coming for him.
The vehicle stopped. A door slammed. A dog barked.
Rob remained on the ground. A black-and-white collie appeared over him and licked his face.
“Meg!” a voice said.
A man leaned over him.
“You’re alive then?”
Rob stared at him.
“Broken anything?”
“I don’t know.”
He propped himself up and again felt a pain in his lower back. He brought his knees up.
Both legs appeared to be in one piece.
His ribs ached, but nothing felt broken. With help from the farmer, he got up.
“Luckier than your friend, I’m afraid.” The farmer put an arm around Rob and walked him toward the Land Rover.
“I’m sorry?” Rob asked weakly.
“He’s over yonder.” The farmer pointed to the winding narrow road that ran along the bottom of the hill. “Still in his seat. Not a pretty sight, I’m afraid. All bent up. Hit the ground hard. Very nasty.”
“He’s dead?” Rob asked weakly.
“’fraid so.”
They got to the vehicle and Rob climbed in gingerly.
Meg jumped up and sat next to him. Rob put his hand on her neck. Soft and warm. She looked up at him, panting, with her tongue hanging out. It looked like she was smiling.
He gently stroked her, as she curled up on the bench seat.
The farmer drove slowly down the hill, speeding up when they got to a Tarmac road.
As they rounded the bend at the end of the valley, Rob saw the white and orange of Speedy’s parachute. A tractor was parked nearby and two men stood to one side. They had stretched the silk over the scene and weighted it down with stones.
Rob stared at the lifeless bulge.
He thought back to Speedy’s ejection. They were rolling, still inverted. His eagerness to abandon the aircraft had killed him.
He looked around for the black smoke.
“Can you take me to the aircraft, please?”
The farmer looked surprised. “Don’t you want to go to the doctor?”
“Please, I need to see.”
They reached a T-junction. The farmer turned right and they headed toward the black smoke.
The road wound around the hill. The crash scene was somewhere over the next slope.
From a distance, it looked like the Vulcan hit the ground flat, as the distinctive triangle shape still recognisable.
But as they got closer, he could see the aircraft was ripped down its centre, fire consuming what was left of the wings, the white paint giving way to the unruly metal framework.
Scattered fragments sat further up the hill, including what looked like a fan assembly from an engine.
“This is as close as we can get,” the farmer said, pushing the Land Rover’s front two wheels onto the base of the steep slope.
Rob opened the door and climbed out, followed by the dog. The farmer called to her and she stopped and sat by the vehicle.
As Rob walked, he winced at the back pain, but pushed on, picking his way over loose rock, tufts of grass and occasional yellow flowers.
Soon, he felt the heat of the fire on his face.
As he approached, he began a methodical scan of the twisted remains.
The nose section was recognisable. He gave the debris a wide berth, walking around the right hand side. Behind the nose, the missing canopy revealed the inside of the cockpit and behind that, a tear in the frame of the fuselage gave him glimpses of the rear crew bay.
He moved further around, his eyes tracking along the blackened, distorted outline. Jagged metal protruded at untidy angles. The painstakingly constructed modern bomber, torn into thousands of barely recognisable pieces in an instant.
He continued to search, moving slowly, ensuring he could see into every area of the downed jet.
He needed to know. He had to be sure.
Finally, his eyes settled on a shape.
Two legs. Twisted, charred.
He moved further around.
Just visible in the dark recesses: a helmet. Wisps of smoke partially obscured the blackened face within.
He wobbled, his legs in danger of giving way.
He crouched, steadying, then forced himself back up.
The farmer had made his way a few yards up the hill.
“Come on, now,” he shouted. “This is no good for you.”
Rob moved further around the far side of the wreck, continuing to search with his eyes.
Beyond the central rise of collapsed metal, he saw an outstretched, lifeless arm.
He followed it back and stared at the torso.
A moment later, he emerged from the smoke.
“We can go now.”
The planning room at TFU was filling up. Even with the full flying programme, the chaps usually found a way to be done a little earlier and head off to Happy Hour on a Friday.
When the call came in from the tower, a couple of pilots near the hatch overheard the sergeant take down the details of the overdue aircraft.
They exchanged looks, but nothing was said.
The missing crew could have diverted with a technical problem.
They could have extended the trial in the air.
They could be carrying out a touch and go at Boscombe.
But sometimes, they could just sense it: none of the above would be the case.
In the thirty minutes that followed, the mood grew sombre, although still no-one speculated out loud.
They delegated Red to let the boss know.
“No need to panic, Brunson,” said Kilton, carrying on with his paperwork.
But as Brunson backed out of the office, there was a rise in volume in the planning room.
Jock MacLeish arrived, looking pale.
“Rob May has just called in from a farmhouse in Wales. They crashed.”
“Did everyone get out?” Kilton asked.
MacLeish shook his head. “Just Rob.”
“Just Rob?” Red said.
MacLeish nodded.
Kilton dropped his head. “Names?”
“Speedy, Steve Bright and…” MacLeish hesitated and looked directly at Kilton.
“And Millie.”
The men waited in silence, watching their boss.
Eventually Kilton’s head came back up. Slowly, he got to his feet. MacLeish moved out of his way as he walked into the middle of the planning room.
“No phone calls out. Someone order me a car.”
Somewhere in the hedgerow, a blackbird sounded its alarm call. Such an urgent sound on a peaceful day.
A cat?
Probably.
Georgina closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face.
“Thank you, darling.” Mary finished her drink.
“Think nothing of it, Mar. We all go through this. God knows I hardly saw Millie during the bloody war. Mind you I was digging for victory in Norfolk and he was at Tangmere most of the time.”
Mary laughed. “I’d loved to have seen you in your land girl dungarees.”
“Ha! I can’t remember if I ever wore them, but it was certainly muddy.” She sighed at the memories of those strange days. “Bloody hard work, but good
fun in the evenings. Back then, every day felt like it could be your last. Maybe that’s why we enjoyed ourselves so much at night.” She stood up and gathered the two glasses. “Perhaps that’s a tale for another time. One more?”
“One more.”
Georgina smiled and headed into the house.
In the kitchen she noticed an insect of some sort had found its way onto the lemon in her glass. She tipped it into the bin, put the glass in the bowl and took Millie’s whisky tumbler from the draining board.
“That’ll do.”
As she headed to the fridge, a movement caught her eye.
A car turning slowly into Trenchard Close.
A black staff car.
She froze.
A staff car in the middle of the day, in a married quarter patch, brought only one type of message.
Her hand tightened around the tumbler.
The vehicle passed Sarah Brunson’s house, then Louise Richardson’s, in a macabre game of widow roulette.
It drew to a halt, precisely and unmistakably at the end of the short path that led to her front door.
Mark Kilton emerged, looking grave.
The whisky tumbler fell from Georgina’s hand and smashed on the hard kitchen floor.
“Please, god, no…”
She blinked back the first of the tears, before straightening her top and opening the front door.
Kilton stood, stiff back, hat tucked under his arm.
Silence.
He lowered his head.
“One hundred and twelve days, Mark,” said Georgina. “The old bugger only had another one hundred and twelve days to retirement.”
He looked up and stared deep into her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Georgina. I’m so sorry.”
She tried to hold it off, but the collapse was coming.
She bent forward and clutched her head. Tears flowed between her fingers.
Kilton held her shoulders.
“He was a fine man, Georgina,” he whispered. “A fine man. Let us be proud.”
Kilton guided her inside the house.
She looked back at him. “Rob?”
“Alive. Shaken, but alive.”
“He was with him?”
“Yes.”
Mary was in the kitchen, staring at the broken glass. She looked up and put a hand to her mouth.
“Georgina. No!”
“Rob’s OK. Isn’t that wonderful news?”
