Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

Another sudden plunge, and Millie snapped his head back. But the aircraft levelled off. He switched the dial to the first position, looking directly down. Three hundred and sixteen feet. He took another deep breath and checked his watch.

Eight more minutes of this.

MARY MAY KNOCKED ON THE MILFORDS’ front door. It flew open.

“Mar! My favourite gorgeous person in the whole wide world.” Georgina beamed at her.

Mary burst into tears.

“Oh, blimey. Mar, whatever is wrong? Come here.” Georgina stepped out of the house and enveloped Mary in her arms.

“Nothing. It’s nothing, really. Just silly marriage stuff.” She wiped away her tears, delving into her cardie for a tissue. “I didn’t mean to cry. I feel embarrassed.”

“Nonsense. Get in here, my lovely.”

Mary stepped into the married quarter.

“What you need, young lady, is gin. What do you say that we set up a couple of chairs in the garden, get ourselves G&Ts and you can tell me all about it?”

THE VULCAN WORKED HARD. They entered a steep valley complex, and the huge delta wings rolled with strong rudder and throttle input to negotiate the tight turns.

Rob tried not to fight it, allowing his body to ebb and flow with the movements.

He learned in the single seats to roll with the aircraft and resist the temptation to lean upright.

He kept half an eye outside and half an eye on Speedy, who looked relaxed, with his hands on his thighs.

But it all looked good. Guiding Light, back in its natural habitat, was performing well, as expected.

They rolled level and went over a small ridge, the aircraft rising and dipping before sweeping over a long reservoir.

Four minutes until the end of the fifteen-minute stretch he promised Millie would be the extent of their run at three hundred feet.

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.