One of Us Is Dead

88 Tuesday 18 October 2022

Taylor was in a hurry. He had intended to arrive at the airport by 7.30 a.m. for the 08.15 take-off slot filed on his flight plan. Out of habit he liked to leave plenty of time to check the aircraft, and if possible grab a coffee from the cafe.

But thanks to a minor accident as well as roadworks clogging up the rush-hour traffic, it was 8.10 a.m. when he finally pulled into the parking area in front of the Brighton City airport terminal. The flight plan he had filed yesterday with Air Traffic Control, as normal, only allowed a thirty-minute window for take-off. His was 08.15–08.45. He was going to have to rush his pre-flight checks, which he never liked doing — and he had to hope that the duty ops team had towed the Pilatus out of the hangar and onto the apron, ready to go.

He parked the MG, grabbed his battered overnight bag and his flight logbook, and hurried in the cold through the pilots’ gate and along the narrow corridor between the two buildings. To his relief he saw the Pilatus was out of the hangar, parked just over the yellow line indicating the start of the apron. An airfield operative he knew, Des, was detaching the yellow towing tug from the front.

As he strode over he glanced at the orange windsock, which was indicating a light sou’westerly — the normal prevailing wind. Then reaching the Pilatus he did a quick walk around, thanking Des for getting the plane out.

Reaching the aircraft, he lowered the front door and climbed up the steps into the immaculate cream and tan interior, which reeked of fresh polish, and had the same thought he always did boarding this aircraft. It looked so tiny on the outside, yet it was like a Tardis inside.

Behind the cockpit, which could be closed off for privacy, was a spacious boardroom configuration of four large first-class-style leather seats, with tables, and another two seats further back, with the curtained-off baggage stowage area beyond, in the rear. He glanced briefly around, checking out of habit that all looked in order, and that the private company employed to stock up the stores of drinks and nibbles, and sandwich selection in the fridge, had done their job. Then he glanced at his watch again: 08.14. Shit.

He dumped his bag on a passenger seat and secured it with the belt, planning to move it to the rear stowage area later, after he landed in Jersey, then grabbed the canvas bag hanging in the cockpit and hurried back down the steps. He made another fast inspection walk around, checking that nothing looked damaged and there were no leaks, then removed the pitot covers from the tubes under the wings, followed by the nose wheel chock and put them in the bag.

Then he climbed back on board, pulled the door shut and entered the cockpit. Hanging the bag back up on its hook, he sat in the left seat, loaded up the nav computer with the route, then opened the tech log to confirm the aircraft’s current technical status was serviceable, as expected.

It was still fairly quiet at this hour out on the airfield, but he could hear the faint clatter of a helicopter. He zoned the sound out, and everything else, to focus.

Finally, when he was satisfied, he clipped on his harness, unhooked the headset from above him, pulled it on, and pressed the transmit button on the radio. It was 08.19. Although now known as Brighton City airport, historically it was Shoreham airport, due to its location, and all Air Traffic Control communications continued as from Shoreham tower. ‘Shoreham tower, Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu PC12 on the main apron with information, request start clearance for Jersey.’

The air traffic controller’s voice was calm and crisp as he approved the request.

Taylor fired up the Pratt and Whitney turboprop engine and let it warm up on idle power, while he spent the next few minutes carefully ticking through the checklist. The fuel tanks were full, which gave him a range of 1,500 miles, more than ample to collect Towne, fly him from Jersey to Brussels and return — a round-trip of approximately 1,000 miles.

‘Tower, Golf Uniform Zulu request taxi,’ Taylor replied.

‘Golf Uniform Zulu taxi Kilo One for runway Two Zero.’

Taylor’s adrenaline began to surge as it did every time Air Traffic Control gave him the signal to proceed to the runway. This was in some ways the biggest buzz of flying, the rising excitement during the minutes immediately before take-off.

He replied and opened up the throttle, enjoying the rise in pitch of the engine and the increased thrashing of the large propellor in front of him, then the plane began to move forward, jolting on the uneven surface, as he headed at a gentle taxiing speed out across the airfield.

Five minutes later, he was in place, and the runway, a narrow strip of black tarmac with white markings, stretched out ahead of him. There was no sign of any other plane on the move. And he still had twenty minutes in hand. The controller’s voice came through his headset.

‘Golf Uniform Zulu are you ready to copy clearance?’

He responded that he was ready to copy. He was feeling like an excited kid, he couldn’t help it, and there were other pilots he’d spoken to over the years, mature adults like himself, who still got the same thrill in these final moments. The day you didn’t, he thought, would be the day you should hand in your ticket.

‘After departure you are cleared right turn on track Goodwood, remain outside controlled airspace.’ The controller continued with the instructions before eventually giving Taylor clearance for take-off.

Now his adrenaline was really surging.

Taylor pressed firmly on the brake pedals then opened up the throttle. The aircraft juddered as the engine howled. This was the moment he loved best of all. For the next thirty seconds or so, until he was airborne and away, he owned this runway and all the airspace around him. For the next thirty seconds, the whole train set was his!

He released the brakes and the plane rolled forward, accelerating rapidly, bumping faster and faster, the ribbon of tarmac unspooling in front of him. He watched the speed. 50mph... 60... 70... 80. He gently pulled back the control column. The nose of the plane came up and the bumping stopped. He was airborne.

Then he heard another sound, like a bump, somewhere behind him.

He turned his head, puzzled. But could not see anything amiss.