John Halkin - Squelch

‘Number two auxiliary pump.’

‘On.’

‘Hydraulics?’

‘Checked…’

So far it felt good, Jeff reflected as Pierre continued through the checklist. Ginny’s report had been precise, closely following the short list of questions he’d supplied. As he’d feared fuel was low; poor maintenance work on the engines meant they were burning more than they should. But there was no doubt they would make Gatwick comfortably. Not that he had any alternative. Alan had passed on the information that both Heathrow and Stansted were out of action; incoming flights were being diverted to Manchester and even Dublin.

‘Flying ark. Acknowledge. Over.’

‘Go ahead, Alan. Over.’

‘Ginny reports caterpillars on runway. I can now put her through to you. One minute.’ A hard click cut through the static, hurting his ears. Then came Ginny’s voice, recognisable despite the distortion. ‘Jeff, this is Ginny. Do you read me? Over.’

‘Loud and clear, Ginny. What’s this about caterpillars? Over.’

‘Caterpillars gathering on runway,’ she said slowly. ‘Large number. Coming out of the grass. Over.’

‘Okay, Ginny. I read you. Ask Alan, can he keep this channel open? Over.’

‘Wilco, Jeff!’ came Alan’s young, eager voice.

Ginny put the field glasses to her eyes again. It was an incredible sight. The caterpillars on the runway must now number several hundred, yet their progress was so slow, she was hardly aware of any movement. She was grateful to be sitting inside the Range Rover with the windows up. In the BMW alongside, Bernie gestured to her. She glanced back to see what he was pointing at. It was two giant moths, fluttering around each other near the wide, open hangar entrance. Bernie did a quick mime with his hands and pursed his lips, imitating a kiss — a courtship dance? Was that what he was trying to say?

‘Hello, Ginny!’ the car phone crackled. ‘Come in, Ginny, over.’

‘I’m here, Jeff. Over.’

‘Request more detail about caterpillars. Are they… widely scattered… loose pattern… close… or… thick? Over.’

‘Jeff, they’re close but in patches. Do you read me? Over.’

‘I read you, Ginny. Any change, let me know, please. Over.’

Just my bloody luck, Jeff thought. No fire tenders. No foam. No rescue services of any kind. And he only had to put his wheels where the caterpillars were thickest to risk spinning off the runway.

‘A bit like landing in slush,’ he said with a wink at Enoch. ‘Filthy, half-frozen, mucky slush.’

‘Landing gear,’ Pierre intoned.

‘Down,’ came Enoch’s voice. ‘Three greens.’

‘Anti-skid.’

(God, we’re going to need that!)

‘On. Four releases.’

‘Flaps,’ said Pierre.

‘Give me forty, please.’

‘Forty selected. Moving. Forty checked. Two greens.’

Ginny’s voice came urgently through his headset, cutting across Enoch’s response. He could sense the fear as she spoke.

‘Jeff, I can see moths. A thick swarm of moths just visible in the field glasses. You’ll fly into them. Over.’

‘Roger, Ginny. Can’t spot ’em yet, but…’ He glanced at the fuel. There was still enough in the tanks to roast them all alive. Time to speak the unthinkable. ‘Ginny — any problems when we land, you and Bernie stay well clear. Okay? Over and out.’

Pringle’s luck — it couldn’t be anything else! All his life it had dogged him. Everything would go like a dream, then when he least expected it — Wham! Dropped in the shit. Like that time he’d dumped a plane-load of holiday makers into a potato field, overshooting the runway for Chrissake! No one hurt save for cuts and bruises, and that stewardess who’d lost the baby she’d told no one she was expecting. Not even his own fault, as the Inquiry established beyond doubt. Could have happened to anyone, but it didn’t. Happened to him: Pringle’s luck.

They were spot on for a perfect touchdown. There was the runway straight ahead. Then he saw the moths, bloody thousands of them directly in his approach path.

‘Oh-oh!’ he heard Enoch murmur alertly.

Ginny held her breath. The Boeing was over the end of the runway, its wheels seemingly — from where she was parked — only inches above the ground when the roar of its engines coughed and faltered. Despite this, the great aircraft touched down elegantly and began to race along.

For a second she relaxed, until she realised the Boeing’s ground speed was not reducing and its engines still produced desperate choking sounds. Then came silence as they finally cut out. It left the runway, skidding through almost ninety degrees across the grass until at last it did a kind of bellyflop and came to rest on the far side of the airfield.

‘Jeff, are you okay? Over.’ She shouted into the mouthpiece hysterically. ‘Jeff, for God’s sake say something. Over.’

‘Ginny, what’s happened?’ Alan’s voice broke through. ‘Are they okay?’

She examined the Boeing through the field glasses, only too aware that it might blow up at any moment. Jeff had warned them. But nothing was happening. The aircraft was on its belly on the grass, motionless.

‘Alan, I’m going over there to take a look. Keep trying him, will you? Over and out.’

Winding down her window just a crack, she briefly told Bernie what she intended before setting out, keeping at first to the taxiway. It was like driving over a carpet of caterpillars, the wheels crunching them to death and slithering over the green juice they extruded. Coming along behind her Bernie seemed to be in even greater difficulty, at one point skidding on to the grass.

He waved to her through the windscreen, trying to indicate that the grass might be the easier option. She joined him and they drove side by side. The ground was soft after all the heavy rain and their tyres left deep muddy ruts. Moths flew against the windows and windscreen; she used her washer and wipers to try and keep them out of her line of vision, but they never let up for a moment. She was the intruder, they seemed to be saying; there was no longer any hint of welcome in their interest.

Every few seconds Alan’s voice came thinly from the handset, begging for a response from the Boeing. Its radio remained silent, as if the whole plane had died.

Some twenty yards away from the aircraft she stopped the car and called Alan to describe what she could see. They were not far from the extreme end of the runway. Through the expanse of grass the Boeing had gouged a long, wide causeway of mud before coming to a final stop. She could see no one at the windows; no movement of any kind.

But — just as she was about to finish — the outer skin to the rear of the aircraft began to bulge and shift. She took the field glasses and focussed on it.

‘They’re opening the doors!’ she yelled excitedly. ‘I can see them opening the doors. Oh Alan, they’re still alive! I’m going over to help. Over and out!’

Bernie too had noticed the plane’s doors opening. He was already putting on his safety helmet and fumbling with the press studs of the rubber face mask. He had rejected the offer of an Army suit, saying he found it too restricting. Ginny agreed with him and now preferred heavy overalls, though still using the Army helmet. But nothing they had tried so far was ideal; that was another area where more research was needed.

They clumped over the grass towards the Boeing. The caterpillars were thick on the ground. With every footstep she felt them writhing beneath her boots. By now the moths were whistling again in an eerie concert of high-pitched squeaks which were steadily becoming louder.

Bernie touched her arm, pointing. Something was happening in the plane. In the open doorway, two figures were manhandling what looked like a long, flat crate. Then they tipped it over and seemed to be thumping the bottom.