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The
Aviator
It is a long way
from Copenhagen to Aberdeen. It is an especially
long way if you are flying an elderly Piper
Apache. The majority of the flight is over the
sea. At two hundred miles per hour and at a
height of five thousand feet, the only event
that would take place quickly would be the time
from failure of both engines to the impact with
the sea. An Apache can almost cope with failure
of one of its two engines. If the remaining
engine can be persuaded to develop full power,
it is generally possible to stay in the air
although it is preferable to find somewhere to
land at the earliest opportunity. Regrettably,
the open sea is rather short of suitable places
to land.
The pilot relaxed in the worn leather seat and
allowed his gaze to take in the pale moon, just
visible through the scattered clouds. Soon, he
thought, the weather would close in completely.
The five passengers behind him were either
trying to doze or staring out of the crazed
Perspex windows. To all intents and purposes,
the pilot was alone in the aircraft.
He turned the
volume up on the radio and listened to the
silence, broken only infrequently by distant
aircraft requesting Copenhagen’s weather. He
switched channels to the International Emergency
frequency. All aircrews are required to monitor
this frequency as a matter of course. As usual,
the hiss of static was the only evidence that
the radio was functioning correctly.
The pilot reached above his head and switched to
the primary radio. As he did, he heard a voice.
He hurriedly switched back to the emergency
frequency. Silence. Even turning the volume up
high did not produce so much as a whisper.
Resignedly, he changed again to his primary
communications radio. He scanned the instrument
panel. All was in order. There was nothing to
disrupt the progress of the flight. A nagging
voice in his head insisted that there had been a
voice on the emergency frequency. A voice that
would not be still. He reached up and switched
to the second radio. The silence and unbroken
static mocked his doubts. The pilot forced his
hand towards the channel switch. As his fingers
touched the selector, he heard the voice in his
headset very faint but clear. A voice speaking
English. The pilot pressed the transmit button.
“Station
calling on Emergency Frequency, this is Piper
Apache aircraft receiving you strength three.
Say your message.” He listened intently.
Nothing. The aircraft droned on into the night.
He tried again. “Station calling emergency,
say your position and nature of emergency.”
The reply came back instantly.
“We can hear you. Can you help us? We are
drifting and in danger of sinking.”
“Yes, I hear you but I need to know your
position before I can help you. Do you know
where you are?”
“We are the sailing ship Samuel Taylor. Please
help us. We are sinking. For God’s sake, help
us………..” The voice tailed off into
silence. The pilot pressed the transmit button
again.
“Samuel Taylor, stand by. I will try to get a
radio fix on your position and get some help on
the way. Hang on.” The nearest Air Traffic
centre was Amsterdam. With any luck, they should
be able to hear the sailing ship and get a
reasonably accurate position for it. To the
dismay of the pilot, he was unable to make
contact with Amsterdam. He tried Aberdeen
without success. It seemed that he was unable to
make contact with any station at all. In
desperation, he switched back to the Emergency
frequency.
“Mayday,mayday,mayday. This is Piper aircraft
Golf Alpha Victor. Any station receiving me?”
There was no response. He concluded with dismay
that both radios had failed. Radio failure on
this particular aircraft happened with
monotonous regularity. The pilot noted with some
concern that the visibility had deteriorated
dramatically and that ice was starting to form
on his windshield. Despite the failure of the
radios, the voice in his headset was stronger
now.
“Can you help us. The water is coming faster
now and we shall surely sink. Help us for
pity’s sake.”
“You sound much louder. Perhaps you are quite
close. Can you hear my engines?”
“I hear nothing but the wind. Please hurry. We
have little time left.” The voice was now
booming in the pilot’s headset. The ship must
be very close indeed.
He turned to the passengers.
“Sorry people, there is a ship in trouble very
close to here. I have to go down and look for
her. Keep your eyes peeled. It is apparently a
sailing ship and sinking fast according to the
radio.” He wondered why he could hear the
messages from the ship. He would worry about
that later.
He reduced power and started to descend. The ice
forming on the windshield was getting thicker
and the de-icers seemed to be ineffective. As
the aircraft descended, swirls of water vapour
danced around the tips of the idling propellers
and flew in streams from the wingtips. Forward
visibility was non existent. From the side
window, the pilot could catch an occasional
glimpse of the steel grey sea below. One
thousand feet. Dangerous to go lower in this
fog. Again, the voice from the ship spoke. By
now it was so loud that he did not even need the
headset. He tore it off his head and threw it on
the floor.
“Samuel Taylor, I hear you very clearly now. I
am searching for you. Can you hear my engines
yet?”
“I think that you are very close, my friend
but I fear you may be too late. The water is
rising fast.”
The pilot peered through the side window, his
face pressed against the glass. Nothing but the
sea and the thick swirling fog. Then he saw it.
A large two masted schooner, listing at an
alarming angle with the port side of the deck
almost under the water. The naked masts had a
thick coating of ice and the rigging sagged
under the weight.
“I see you! I see you! I will get a fix on
your position and help will be here very soon.
Hang on!” The pilot pushed the throttles
forward and pulled the aircraft into a climb.
As he turned his face away from the side window
to look forward, he was just in time to see the
huge white sea bird in front of the windshield.
The impact of such a massive bird was sufficient
to crash through the double thickness laminated
glass, totally devastating the flight deck. One
huge, black tipped wing smashed into the pilot's
face, throwing his head backwards and breaking
his neck. The body of the bird carried on into
the cabin, decapitating the people in the front
two passenger seats. The unconscious pilot
slumped forward, pushing the control column. The
aircraft obediently responded to the
unintentional control input by nosing over into
a terminal dive. Under full power and with the
steep angle of the dive, the Apache was
travelling at a speed in excess of two hundred
and ten miles per hour as it hit the unyielding
surface of the water. The aircraft disintegrated
on impact, killing the three remaining
passengers instantaneously.
Incredibly, the pilot was thrown clear and
although terribly injured, managed to swim
towards the stricken Samuel Taylor. Exhausted,
he reached the side and hands reached out to
pull him from the freezing water. He looked up
at his rescuer. Clad in tattered, filthy rags,
he was a pale, haggard man with a long grey
beard. The old man’s eyes burned like fire as
he dug talon-like fingers into the pilot’s
arm. As if in a trance, the pilot realised that
he was unable to move. He was sure that his
death was very close. He faced the old man and
summoning up the last of his strength, forced
himself to speak.
“Who…who are you?”
“It’s a very long story," the old man
said, "but as we now have all the time in
the world, I will tell you.”
He held him with his skinny hand. “There was a
ship,” he began. |
