Black Flag

black flag a short story by Ferret cave publications

2010

black flag a short story by Ferret cave publications

2010

S

teve is on autopilot, the catatonic drive twelve miles to work at 5 a.m. When he gets there he will not remember a single detail of the journey, he will get out of blues and into his

coveralls, woolly hat, hi-viz kit and liney gloves impregnated with oil, grease and Avtur from years of servicing the Hawks. He will make a strong brew with three sugars and grab a sausage roll sandwich while jotting down his cabs for the morning in the same old dog-eared line jotter and signing out his tool roll. None of it will register; it’s simply a matter of routine.

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Only as he enters the smoky crew room does Steve notice a change.

He can spot different at a thousand yards, not normal, not right, danger.

The MET Office had predicted severe weather, flight ops cancelled until further notice. They called it ‘Black Flag’, we called it ‘Liney Sunshine’. The Hawks were prepped in the relative warmth and comfort of the three massive hangars. And the line settled down to a morning of hot brews, daytime telly, smoking and cards. Maybe later a five-a-side footy tournament in the gym.

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A call from the tower declares a weather window at 13:00, aircrew walking at 12:50. Ten jets to be prepared for ‘land away’. The Hawks are dragged from their cocoons and delivered to designated slots on the pan, where lineys wait to pre-flight and pack aircrew baggage.

Steve has XX192 on slot 3. He checks the luggage pannier and makes sure it’s for his crew. Two new guys he hasn’t heard of, fresh out of flight school at Valley, heading for RAF Scampton. The pannier goes under the cockpit. Soggy curses as he lies on his back in the 8

rain, kicking the box into position and holding it there with his feet while he tightens the retaining straps.

12:45 hours and as if in a script the rain and fog start to clear, Steve is waiting to see off 192. He straps the crew into their ejection seats, chatting about nights out in Lincoln. Now clear for engine start, he is ever watchful for signs of fire. A last scan round the jet for leaks. Steve marshals him out of the slot and onto the apron track leading to the main runway. A final wave and he’s done, time to get back in the warm and a brew before he freezes. The rain may have stopped but that wind is howling.

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As Steve plonks a third sugar into the cup, 192 is at the end of the runway at full power ready to roll, clearance from the tower and the pilot dumps the parking brake. The Hawk is released, pushing the crew back into their seats as it accelerates rapidly down the centre line. Gentle pressure rearwards on the stick and they’re airbourne.

Undercarriage up, flaps in, airspeed increasing nicely.

“BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!” Lights are flashing brightly in the pilot’s eye line, looks down at the central warning panel. Engine oil pressure. A call on the radio 10

“State Two, State Two, XX192 Oil Caption, two POB, returning to base.”

The crew enter circuit over the airfield, set the Hawk up for landing. ‘Caution 192, crosswinds gusting to 45 knots.’ The pilot set up for a long landing, heavy with fuel and luggage, he would fly in low, a shallow approach.

It would have worked anywhere else, this station had a dip in the landscape just before the runway, and on this day the wind was blowing right along it. With fifty yards left to the perimeter fence and 11

about forty feet in the air, every ounce of airflow over the wings simply disappeared. XX192 dropped like a brick; the crew had no time to react, no chance to eject. It smashed into the ground and exploded with a WHOOMPH! They never go bang Steve thought.

The two people he had last spoken to were now dead, XX192 nothing more than a stain on a Welsh patchwork landscape. Next of kin would be informed, there would be an inquiry, he would have to prove he did nothing wrong, lessons would be learned.

It started to rain.

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