Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

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 onto 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.