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Prestwick
by
David Hough
Out Now
"Two thousand feet." The altimeter was winding down fast and Youngman's voice was growing ever more taut.
To the right hand side of the airplane, on the periphery of his vision, Judson could still make out the red glow of the burning wing. How much longer would it burn before the fuel tanks exploded? He gripped the control column even tighter.
If they had been given permission to make a landing at Prestwick, they would be on final approach soon. Just a little longer, not too long, and Judson would be following the needles of the ILS - the Instrument Landing System - for a safe touchdown on a firm runway. But Prestwick was out of the question. It was just bad luck.
"One thousand feet."
Judson began to ease back on the column. "There's the cloud-break," he shouted.
One moment they were descending through the thick, grey gloom and then the KC135 broke through the cloud base still in a dive. With the angry sea below and the bubbling cloud above, they had descended into a dangerously slim layer of indecision, half way between certain death and probable death.
Judson pulled further back on the column and brought the jet into level flight just a few hundred feet above the sea. Ahead of them was the stark outline of a group of islands, slate grey against the heavy cloud formation. It didn't look too enticing.
"All crew to ditching positions." Judson tightened his seat harness and offered a short, poignant prayer. "And cancel that darned noise!"
Youngman obliged by silencing the undercarriage alarm, a warning that they were flying close to the surface with the wheels up. As he leaned back in his seat, the second pilot scanned across the instruments. "Shit. We're losing oil pressure in number two."
Judson ignored him. Within a few minutes they would have no oil pressure in any engine … no goddamn life in any system on board the flying gas tank. Burning gas tank.
He pressed his intercom switch. "How does the fire look from back there, Bryzjinsky?"
The sergeant's voice came back slow and dour. "It's sure spreadin' fast, Major. You gonna get us down soon?"
Spreading fast? He gasped. The sooner he got the ship down in the water, the better.
"Okay, Bryzjinsky. All crew stand by for ditching."
He eased the nose down towards the heaving waves. "Highball, this is Gasser 29. We're going down now."
"Roger, Gasser 29." The voice came back calm, too calm by half. "Rescue boats are being launched from Benbecula."
"Roger, Highball. We're gonna need 'em. We're …" His voice choked in mid sentence. "Aw, shit, Highball, we … we got another problem … uh, I don't think we're gonna make it."
| Also by David Hough | |
 |
The Vanson Curse |
 |
King's Priory |
The moral rights of the author have been asserted.
The rights of David Houghto be identified as the author have been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and patents act 1988
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