One of Us Is Dead

99 Tuesday 18 October 2022

A considerable distance off the coast, Rufus Rorke transferred from London Air Traffic Control to Jersey, enabling him to continue the flight into Channel Islands airspace.

Giving it a couple of minutes after the exchanges with Jersey, Rorke radioed, ‘Jersey Control, this is Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu.’

‘Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu, Jersey Control,’ the controller said.

‘We have an issue with pressurization. I need clearance to make an immediate descent.’

After a few moments, the Jersey controller responded. ‘You are cleared to descend to maintain flight level one one zero. Maintain your current heading and advise the nature of your problem.’

‘Roger,’ Rorke responded, evading the request about what sort of problem.

Glancing over his shoulder to check on Taylor, who remained motionless, he began a rapid descent. In a few minutes they would be midway between the south coast of England and the island of Alderney. The perfect dumping spot for Taylor’s body. He needed to descend to a height where pressurization in the cabin was not needed, so that he could open one of the doors without needing a portable oxygen mask — and without the risk of being sucked out.

He watched the large screen in front of him, the dials and digital readouts giving him all the vital information he required as they steadily lost height. They were still in bright sunshine with the clouds a long way beneath them. And the English Channel was a long way beneath the clouds. The chances of Taylor hitting a ferry or a fishing boat were millions to one against. He’d hit the water, and if he wasn’t already dead, the impact would finish him off. Hitting water from terminal velocity of 120mph would be no different to hitting concrete.

He levelled out at flight level one one zero and dutifully radioed Jersey Control to tell them.

They confirmed and gave him instructions to the Jersey landing runway.

Ending the radio comms, Rorke set the autopilot to maintain the Pilatus in level flight at 250 knots and checked his watch. Time to say goodbye, Jamesy!

As soon as he had dumped Taylor out of the aircraft, he would radio Jersey and inform them he was diverting to Brest on the French coast for operational reasons, where he could get engineering support. They would accept that without questioning him. Brest was one of the nearest major airports and would likely have engineering facilities for the Pilatus that Jersey did not.

Then, as soon as he had left Channel Islands airspace and entered French, he would turn his transponder and nav lights off and descend to 200 feet, below the level at which radar would pick him up, and be all but invisible. His destination was the island of Ouessant, off the coast of Brittany.

By the time he got there, which would be approaching 12 o’clock French time, he knew from past experience that the local Air Traffic Control would be off-duty and away from the tower for lunch. He would put the aircraft down and half an hour later be on the powerboat he had arranged to take him to Brest. And from there, the private jet to Malaga, where he would land well in time for cocktails tonight.

And perhaps a nice little goodbye night with Shannon.

It was great, he thought with a big smile, when a plan came together.