The Final Flight

FOREWORD

It begins with nothing.

A space in the sky, silence on a radio channel.

A turn of the head in a control tower; a first inkling that something, somewhere, is not right.

There could be a range of benign explanations.

But old squadron hands sense death quickly.

Events unfold with their own momentum and a predictable narrative.

Somewhere in the countryside, a puzzled farmer stares at a plume of rising black smoke.

Within an hour of the missed radio call, a man in uniform knocks on the door of a married quarter.

He stands in silence, hoping his presence alone will convey the gravity of his message.

It always does.

Families mourn, but the men in flying coveralls must go back into the air.

They bury their friend, then bury their grief.

Away from public view, serious men with clipboards pore over the debris and piece together the sequence of events.

Arguments and compromise precede the publication of an official document on flimsy government paper.

It invariably contains two words. A final insult to young men who had so much of their lives to live but who died in the blink of an eye on a weekday afternoon.

Pilot error.