This is the opening to a novel, which has a substantial prologue before this part and which describes an unusual form of air combat...be glad to hear what you think of this.
Cheers,
Smurf
>-<
Sam Marbury took the call which would change his life on a fine Monday morning in June. He was stepping through the door of his Farnborough apartment when his mobile rang. Pausing in the road leading round to the car park, he pulled the phone from the pocket of the tweed jacket draped over his arm. The shade from the towering old beech trees surrounding the block of flats let him see the badly scratched screen clearly.
It was Toby Jones, his manager. He slid the phone open to accept the call, and Toby lost no time in cutting to the chase.
“You need to get over to Warton ASAP. We have a major incident, one of the Typhoon development aircraft went in just after take-off. At least pilot and observer dead, reports of many more.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yes. You’re to assist Operations. Lead Investigator is Keith Holland, but you’ll be working directly for Karen Jones.”
“That’s Lancashire, right?”
“Yes.”
Sam started walking for his car, fumbling in the jacket pocket for the key fob.
“Can I ask why we’ve got this one? Surely it’s a military case? An RAF investigation team should take the lead?”
“Yeah, doubtless they’ll be there too. But it’s a complicated situation; a civil airfield with a civil operator conducting test flights of a military prototype. Until we get the protocol sorted out, we’re getting a team on the ground. To be honest, it sounds like they’re going to need all hands on the pumps for this one.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to plant any false ideas, I’m sure you’re going to run into them soon enough. Just get over there as fast as you can and help Karen out.”
“OK. And Toby; thanks for the job.”
“Everyone’s got to start a big case sometime. Just work to your usual standard and you’ll be fine.”
“Thanks. I’ll come in to the office and pick up a hire car.”
He slid the phone shut again, walked round the corner of the bin shed and beeped his Vectra.
***
By the time Sam arrived at lunchtime, the only sign of the crash visible offsite was a huge pyramid of still black smoke rising hundreds of feet into the air. While not a place of secret, black projects, the products developed there require a high enough level of security that either high hedges, tall, blank-faced sheds, bungalows and semi-detached houses with their gardens or just sheer distance – a three kilometre runway covers quite a lot ground – mean that little is visible from the public highways. Consequently, when something substantial happens, once the aerial events have ceased, there is nothing for the public to see. In this case, the situation was exacerbated by boundary tapes and armed police blocking the public footpaths well away from the crash in the marshes beyond the site.
Stories had scattered across grapevines, and clots of spotters and gawkers interspersed with reporters and political groups out for a quick sound bite coagulated at the most accessible tapes or lined roads clogged with emergency response vehicles and cars of the concerned. The police struggled to keep the main Fylde coast road open.
Sam came to a standstill in the village of Freckleton.
Welcome to the big time.
He pulled up onto the dual carriageway’s pavement. Unfolding himself from the hire car’s grey plastic interior, he locked it and walked up to a harassed police officer directing stationary traffic at a roundabout. He opened his wallet, showing his identity card.
“Sam Marbury, Air Accident Investigation Bureau. I need to get on site.”
The officer looked closely at the card, nodded decisively.
“Yes, sir. If you continue down here about half a mile, straight over the next roundabout and on the left maybe a few hundred metres further on you’ll see the main entrance.”
“Thanks. Here’s the keys if you need to move the car.”
Sam walked off – past cars with their engines running! – before the officer noticed his shaking hands.
You’ve wanted the big time for long enough; now you’ve got to step up. Can you do it?
His long legs ate up the distance easily. Fit though he was, the midday June air brought a mild sweat to his forehead, so he took off his tweed jacket, the arms turning partially inside out as he peeled it from his thick upper arms and wide shoulders.
Yes, I can. Managed to stitch together the Peak District crash, and figure out why the Brize Norton Harrier ended up twelve feet deep in the river.
He rolled his shirt sleeves up as he reached the second set of lights, passing the brushed steel triangular column bearing the company’s blue, red and white logo.
But what the hell is it? What did Toby mean? False ideas? Lost a Typhoon, but maybe deaths on the ground? Well, we’ll see soon enough.
He pushed his way through the crowds in the car park, then gave up on reception when he saw the mob besieging the staff there, and began shoving his way towards the eight foot steel main gates. Approaching a couple of tense security guards, he opened his mouth to speak just as an ambulance flew past leaving the site, siren blaring as it headed for the traffic lights, only to screech to a halt at the traffic sitting across the box junction. Drivers twisted in their seats to reverse and finally a gap of a couple of car widths appeared. Turning left, the ambulance wove down through traffic nudging out of its way to disappear towards Blackpool.
Checking his credentials, the guards waved him through into bedlam, directing him to the canteen where the investigation and rescue teams had set up. He took his ID out his wallet and a cord from his pocket to hang it round his neck and walked through the heavy barred gates.
Smoke dominated the scene. A lack of wind had allowed dense black billows to hang over what must be the crash site. A collection of smaller, closer plumes added to the murk, indicating smaller fires which had been put out behind the buildings he walked towards. He struggled to control his gagging, almost overpowered by the stink of burnt fuel, plastics, metal, flesh, acridity pervading the site. Walking round the Operations Building the disaster scene opened up in front of him.
The car park was edged at one side by five huge hangars, all their massive doors open, revealing a variety of production lines and test rigs. Smashed cars lay everywhere, victims of collisions either on the roads or in the neat rows of parked cars. Some appeared to have leapt on top of others, some had just trundled out of control until they’d been stopped by bollards or other vehicles. Site fire tenders squatted at two separate crashes like APCs trying unsuccessfully to convey a sense of order. They’d been joined by several public engines, their crews still smothering smoking remains or cutting vehicles open. Between the rows of cars and the airfield, the flight operations centre with its squat tower and small passenger terminal sat smouldering. On the apron beside it, two small jetliners and three smaller propliners sat waiting for passengers who would never come. Out across the runway distant single story buildings seemed undamaged, and the red and white panel of the radar antenna spun on regardless. In the distance, must be over two kilometres away, the giant, smoky arrowhead indicated the crash site in the marshes beyond the far boundary fence. A dozen ambulances were dealing with clusters of survivors all across the scene, paramedics giving individuals first aid.
All these he had expected to see. But the dead –
Scattered across the car park, crumpled in the buildings, shoved through windscreens and hanging out car doors, slumped at the hangar door controls and throughout the workstations, stretching out of view behind the blast screens surrounding the far aprons, they lay everywhere. Yet despite convulsed, unnatural muscle reactions twisting arms, legs and heads into extreme positions, faces filled with incomprehension at the impossible, or unbelieving terror and the foresight of death, despite all this, there seemed no explanation for most of the corpses. Some had obviously suffered accidents, falls, car crashes and the like, but most lay where they had fallen, far from anything which could have harmed, let alone killed them.
He turned away, face struggling to mask his incredulity. He’d seen death several times, but he had never learned to handle it. Mechanical death, where machines had torn themselves apart, he could deal with, bury himself in the what, the how, why. But this scene – in all his life, all his study and research, he’d never heard of anything like it. The start to a normal working Thursday, wrecked by sudden yells, people running and screaming and then just – falling over, violent convulsions gradually dying away. Near simultaneous deaths, no sign of violence on most of them. He felt his grip on the logic of reality shaking; but even so his mind was picking up bits and pieces, putting together ideas, scenarios.
A hatless constable approached, holding an unresisting, wild-eyed man in oil-spotted, worn blue overalls by an arm. Spotting the ID badge round Sam’s neck, he gently pulled the mechanic in Sam’s direction.
“Sir,” he said in a monotonous tone, “this man says he saw what happened.”
“Thanks, constable.” Sam nodded, turned to the man. “Yes, sir, what can you tell us?”
“It makes no sense – all of this – gone – but – just, just unbelievable. They all just stared at the sky – and then began yelling about – about –” his voice dried up, died away.
“About what, sir?” Sam asked gently. The man was chalk white, shivering, the struggle in his mind leaking out of eyes staring sightlessly at Sam. Sam nodded to the constable, who ran off towards the nearest ambulance.
“Dragon.” A whisper. The man’s eyes quivered into focus on Sam’s. “They said there was a – dragon.”
Sam didn’t react, although he felt a thud in his stomach. “Was there a dragon?”
The man's face gave him all the confirmation he needed.
>-<
