Джеймс Блатч - The Final Flight

“Red, you carry on with the pre-start, I’ll strap him in.”

Rob exhaled quietly and turned away from the pair to busy himself with the checks.

Kilton’s hands reached over Stafford, pulling on his straps, and in the process, he pushed against Rob.

The Vulcan cockpit suddenly felt more cramped than he was used to.

Kilton told Stafford which pins to remove to make the seat live and then where to store them. Meanwhile, Rob brought the Avro aircraft to life and prepared to start the engines.

To his relief, Kilton shuffled back down the ladder. An engineer stood on the crew-access ladder, ready to help him close and seal the hatch.

Once done, Rob craned around to see Kilton move to the Guiding Light position and strap himself in.

He quickly began the quick engine start sequence; he had a few seconds before Kilton would connect his PEC and access the intercom. Each of the four Olympus engines fired up, utilising a built-in procedure for the Vulcans that sat on standby with Britain’s nuclear deterrent on board. Something else Brunson had arranged in advance; no waiting for ground power units.

Rob was grateful for the noise and distraction of the auto sequence.

He got a good start on all four engines and continued with the after-start checks.

He would have to talk to ATC.

The engine noise whined in his head through the intercom and he considered taxiing without permission.

He looked down at the intercom control panel and realised with relief that he could isolate the rear crew. He set the switches, keyed his own press-to-transmit switch and requested taxi.

He exchanged hand signals with the ground marshaller and set about shifting the large aircraft from its resting place.

As he swung the Vulcan around and headed for the eastern end of the runway, Mark Kilton appeared next to him, again.

Rob kept his eyes front, but Kilton tapped him on the shoulder. He reluctantly looked around; Kilton tapped the side of his helmet and shouted over the din.

“Intercom’s not working!”

Rob nodded, and Kilton went back down into the dark.

He flicked the switch to bring the rear crew back onto the circuit.

“That’s better. I need to talk to Ewan. Red, power the laser on now, Ewan can watch the reading as we climb out.”

Without replying, Rob reached down to the Guiding Light panel on his left. He flicked the power on, ensuring the flight computer was not yet engaged with the autopilot.

The single height reading lit up on the small meter fitted above the main panel between the two pilots. He used his hand to direct Stafford’s attention to it.

“Great to see it live,” said Stafford. “It’s only ever been a simulation on a workshop bench for me.”

Rob remained enigmatic, trying to look busy and occupied, which was easy, because he was.

As he rounded the final turn to face the runway at ninety degrees, he realised he was going to have to push his luck again with the intercom. He isolated the rear crew once more and made the quick call to ATC for take-off permission, advising them that he would head west after climb out.

He switched Kilton’s intercom back on, to pre-empt another visit up the ladder, and he acknowledged the clearance with a curt, “Roger.”

That was it. He was seconds away from getting airborne and nearly over the first significant hurdle.

Rob looked across to Stafford and out of the side window to check the approach to the runway, ensuring they were safe to line up.

He needed to know the civilian had armed his ejection seat correctly.

More talking.

“Pins?” he said quickly.

Stafford pointed at the removed pins, now in their stowage position.

“Switch?”

Stafford pointed down to his side and gave a thumbs up. “Armed!”

Rob turned back and checked the approach lane to the airfield again. All clear.

He made quick work of the line-up and advanced the throttles to a take-off setting. The engines responded well; they rolled, gathering pace. A white needle climbed around the airspeed indicator.

The noise level rose. Rob’s nostrils had already filled with the familiar smell of the Vulcan’s interior, filling his mind with unwanted images.

For a moment he imagined the ghost of Christopher Milford watching Kilton in his seat, and then chastised himself for not concentrating. He closed and opened his eyes as the centre lines disappeared under the nose at an increasing rate.

Rob eased the stick back, allowed the nose to rise to the horizon, and held it there as the four-engined, large delta wing bomber left the ground.

He tapped the wheel brakes and moved the landing gear handle up.

Loud whirring and bangs from below as the gear tucked itself away.

He banked right and headed west.

The tasking called for a gentle flight in the area immediately west of the airfield, but that didn’t suit Rob’s purpose. He needed a full demonstration, deep in the hills.

Somewhere their lives would depend on the integrity of the Guiding Light system.

That wasn’t the downs around Wiltshire; he needed to get them into Wales.

Kilton spoke to Stafford, taking him through the height readings.

Rob climbed the Vulcan to expedite their transit.

Eventually, Kilton called to him. “When you’re ready, Red, let’s get down to one thousand feet and begin the demo.”

Rob ignored him and continued to climb.

Kilton didn’t seem to notice at first. He and Stafford discussed how the equipment would be installed in existing aircraft.

Rob kept the aircraft moving fast. It was a perfect day for visibility and he tried to pick out Bath ahead, aiming for the city as a convenient run toward the Severn Estuary.

“Come on, Brunson, let’s get this thing down.”

Rob managed to get them to twelve thousand feet. The ground speed was pleasingly high in the thin air, but he could sense Kilton’s patience being stretched. He levelled off and then tipped the aircraft into a very gentle descent. He hoped it would placate the CO.

“Brunson?” Kilton urged again, a couple of minutes later.

They were already over Bath; he’d done well to get them in spitting distance of the hills. Finally, Rob lowered the nose another ten degrees and edged the throttles back as gravity added to their airspeed.

He levelled out at one thousand feet between Newport and Cardiff. The Brecon Beacons were on the nose.

He pushed the nose down and let the Vulcan settle at five hundred feet. Looking down to the Guiding Light panel, he selected three hundred feet as the target height and, using a waypoint that was about two hundred miles north, in Anglesey, he engaged the system.

There was a familiar jolt as the autopilot took over, fed from Guiding Light.

The nose wrenched down and the aircraft repositioned three hundred feet above the ground. The auto-throttle was busy with the four levers to his right. Rob checked they’d reached the target speed of 320 knots.

The aircraft started to complain as it heaved through the turns. The physical nature of the flight had changed significantly from the relatively genteel cruise. Guiding Light was working hard.

“This is low,” said Stafford next to him, although he seemed nonchalant.

It was taking Kilton a while to register that Rob had deviated significantly from the flight plan.

Meanwhile, aware of the frailty of the system, Rob kept his eyes fixed on the terrain ahead, ready to intervene.

Kilton finally spoke over the intercom. “Hey! Up please, Brunson.”

Rob ignored him.

“Red. Up. Can we get back to one thousand, please? We’re at bloody three hundred.”

Rob was breathing heavily; the combination of anxiety from his situation and a fierce focus on the flying was straining his energy levels.