One of Us Is Dead

101 Tuesday 18 October 2022

Taylor lay still for some moments, shaking in shock.

Rorke was gone.

Out of the cabin door. At eleven thousand feet.

He had just killed him.

He had just killed a man who had once, a long time ago, been a good friend. Like a best friend.

Somewhere, through the searing pain and the howling of the wind, a part of his brain was trying to make sense of this. Another part of his brain was telling him he was lying inches from the open door of a plane that was cruising at 11,000 feet, with no one in the cockpit.

First thing was to get safely away from the doorway. Still shaking badly, he wriggled forward into the centre of the cabin, behind the two rear-facing seats, safely away from the open door, then hauled himself onto his feet, staggered to the pilot’s seat, sat down and checked the autopilot.

It all looked fine. They were flying at 11,000 feet across open sea on course for one of the main waypoints inbound to the Channel Islands. Their ETA was thirty-two minutes.

Rorke had set the autopilot properly.

Oh Jesus. He had just killed Rorke. Killed a human being. Killed his old friend. Oh shit, oh God. Oh my God.

He was so overwrought he was struggling again to think clearly. The door was open. In mid-air. It was hydraulically operated. But he doubted it would close at an airspeed of 250 knots. He reduced the throttle, slowing the plane to 100 knots, just above the 67 knots stalling speed, then left his seat and carefully, unsteadily, holding on to anything that he could, struggled back around to the vortex of air and hit the button to close the door.

He heard the whirr. The door, with its built-in steps, rose and in less than a minute had closed with a reassuring thud.

Relief flooding through him, he made his way, still very unsteadily, the pain in his head feeling even worse now, back to the pilot’s seat, sat and clicked himself into his harness. Then he pulled on the headset, trying to think clearly, all his pilot training and experience kicking in. He was about to tune the radio to 121.5 MHz to put out an emergency call to alert shipping in the area to be on the lookout for a body, when he was startled by a shadow to his right. At first, almost hallucinating, he thought it was an airborne great white shark. It morphed into a grey, sharply pointed nose cone. A glass bubble of a cockpit. A sideways fin.

A brief crackle through the headset, then a male voice. Crisp, calm, deadly serious. The voice of someone you didn’t question, didn’t mess with. ‘Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu?’

Taylor responded.

‘I am the RAF Typhoon jet your right-hand side. Maintain your current height and heading.’

Now he could see the grey hull of the jet right alongside. Only yards away. The pilot was looking straight at him.

‘Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu, please identify the pilot who is currently flying your Pilatus then turn to face me.’

It felt, to his relief, like the cavalry had come.

‘Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu copy that. My name is James Taylor. I’m a private pilot working for Mr Thomas Towne who is based in Jersey. This is his aircraft.’

As he turned towards the Typhoon, Taylor saw a camera point at him.

The pilot’s voice came through his headset again. ‘Golf Uniform Zulu, we are informed there are two people on board your aircraft. Please confirm?’

Taylor pressed the mic. ‘I can confirm there were two people on board this aircraft.’

The pilot’s voice came back. ‘Golf Uniform Zulu, did you say there were two of you on board your aircraft?’

‘Copy that.’

‘Golf Uniform Zulu, please clarify what you mean were?’

‘Golf Uniform Zulu. There were two of us on board on take-off. But not any more. One of us is dead.’