One of Us Is Dead

97 Tuesday 18 October 2022

Uncle Johnny struck Taylor squarely, with maximum force, on the side of his forehead, with a loud crack. Taylor, strapped in his seat, slumped over, instantly unconscious.

Or maybe dead, Rorke speculated. Hoped.

The plane seemed to be holding level flight. They were at just over 27,000 feet. He glanced out of a window and down at the clouds a long way below. Quickly unclipping Taylor’s seat harness, he removed his headset and, struggling, pulled his old friend’s limp body off the seat and onto the floor immediately behind the cockpit. Then he sat in the pilot’s seat, blinking his eyes against the bright sunlight, briefly studied the controls, checked the fuel, clipped himself in and pulled on the headset. And instantly heard a calm, but anxious-sounding voice.

‘Golf Uniform Zulu, are you reading me? Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu — London radio check.’

Reading you loud and clear, now fuck off, he thought and smiled. Rorke responded, perfectly calmly, disguising his voice as best he could to sound like James Taylor’s clear diction. ‘Reading you strength five, how you me? We had an emergency, lost our instruments, and the autopilot went rogue, but I’ve now managed to disengage it and we are good to continue with our original flight planned route.’

‘Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu, thank you for this update. Are you confident you do not need an emergency landing?’

‘Affirm I do not require an emergency landing. Will proceed to destination as per flight plan.’

‘Descend immediately to your assigned flight level one eight zero and report when level.’

‘Wilco. Golf Uniform Zulu descending to flight level one eight zero on heading 240 degrees.’ Rorke immediately began the descent, maintaining his bearing.

There was a brief sigh of relief among the gathered occupants in Shoreham tower, overhearing what appeared to be a return to normal operation.

After further calm exchanges, the Pilatus pilot said, ‘Thank you for your assistance, London.’

Rorke smiled. He had bought himself a few minutes without interference.

His first task was to familiarize himself with the controls. All cockpits had the same basics and similar layouts but from the YouTube videos of the Pilatus PC-12 he’d studied, it seemed this particular aircraft’s autopilot was a little trickier to figure out at first. He was going to need the autopilot in a short while, so he focused on that first. He got the hang of it quickly and turned his attention back to flying the aircraft. He checked the altitude, noticing the plane was starting to climb very slightly up from 18,000 feet, and adjusted the trim. Then he checked his position. He was well south of Bembridge airport on the Isle of Wight, over open sea — a long stretch of water from the coast of Southampton to the northern tip of Alderney and the Cherbourg peninsula. Close to ninety miles of open sea. James Taylor’s body wouldn’t be washing up on a beach anytime soon. If ever.

Almost gleefully he pressed the mic. ‘Golf Alpha Victor Uniform Zulu, calling London one three three one eight zero for a radio check.’