Point of Impact

by Point of Impact (retail) (epub)

  So little of the navigator remained that not even his mother could have identified him, but the name patch was still visible on the navigator’s blood-soaked flying suit.

  Drew read the name and turned away, groaning aloud. ‘Shit, Jeff Faraday. I went through training with him.’

  There was a long silence, as the men around him stared at the ground. Few of them had not lost friends in similar circumstances.

  Finally Drew said gruffly, ‘Right, let’s get on,’ his men stirred and went back to their task, avoiding each other’s eyes.

  The team medic had the job of lifting the remains of the pilot’s body out of the seat and placing it in the body bag alongside the severed arm. He zipped the bag closed and helped to carry it to the helicopter as the last rays of the sun touched the moortop high above them. Carrying its grim cargo, the Sea King rose into the rapidly darkening sky and was gone.

  * * *

  It was a long, cold night for the men on the crash cordon. Drew made an hourly circuit of the perimeter, to make sure that they were awake and alert, but the only intruders were owls flitting like wraiths among the trees and foxes which gave the grumbling guards a wide berth. In between his rounds of the crash cordon Drew paced the yard, brooding on the death of his friend.

  He remembered Faraday encouraging him through his flight training and rescuing him when his impatience and hot temper led him into confrontations with senior officers. In true British style, Drew’s thanks and his admiration had been expressed only as an unspoken subtext. Now it was too late to repair the omission.

  As the sun at last showed above the ridgeline to the east, the rooks around Crowgarth Farm shook the frost from their feathers and took off, cawing indignantly at the guards down below. Drew stood motionless at the edge of the farmyard, his eyes following the flight of the rooks against the dawn sky, though his mind was far away.

  He stretched and rubbed his face wearily with his hands, then began walking up the field towards the guards. They stamped their feet, scuffing black streaks into the frost, while their breath condensed in clouds of vapour, drifting up like the smoke from the still-smouldering wreckage. A couple of them were holding out their hands towards the tailplane, trying to warm themselves, as if standing by a brazier.

  Drew tried to push the image of Faraday’s corpse from his mind as he addressed the guards with an enthusiasm he did not feel. ‘Morning, guys. The good news is that you should be relieved in an hour and we’ll chopper you straight back for breakfast in the Mess. Meantime, stay alert.’

  ‘And the bad news, sir?’ asked the chef warily, wise beyond his years to the cruelties of officers.

  ‘The bad news is that you’re back here at 1800 hours to guard the wreckage again tonight.’

  There was a chorus of groans.

  ‘Isn’t there anybody else could do it, sir?’ asked the chef.

  ‘Two men died over there yesterday,’ Drew said, his voice level. ‘Be grateful the closest you come to that is cutting your thumb on your kitchen knives or giving us all food poisoning with your bloody awful cooking. Now, any other complaints?’

  The chef scowled but said nothing as Drew turned on his heel and walked back down towards the farm. He called up base to confirm that the relief guard was on its way. As he finished his call, his eye was caught by the farmer standing at his front door, bleary-eyed in the dawn.

  ‘Morning.’

  The farmer nodded, eyeing him narrowly as he scratched the grey stubble on his chin.

  ‘Morning. You look as rough as I feel,’ grunted the farmer in a thick Yorkshire accent.

  ‘Did you see the crash?’

  ‘Aye, I saw it. It’s not something I’ll forget in a hurry neither.’

  ‘What happened?’

  The farmer licked his lips. He had already told his story a dozen times in the local pub the night before. Each time he told it, the speed of the jet increased by another fifty miles an hour and the crash site moved a few feet closer to where he had been standing. Despite the repetitions, he was far from bored with the tale and began again with relish.

  ‘I was up by High Riddings there,’ he said, gesturing up towards the moor. ‘I was foddering my yows when the plane flew over.’

  His rambling monologue included frequent diversions to cover local points of interest and bits of sheep-farming lore. ‘They’ve shifted some hay this winter, I can tell you. It’s been a thin winter. It’s not come a big heap of snow as it can do, but I’ve never known it so cold, windy and wet – what we call clashy weather.’

  He paused to pull a battered packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one before continuing, eyeing Drew smugly as he did so. Drew was itching to get to the point, but forced himself to be patient.

  ‘Anyway,’ the farmer said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke into the still air, ‘… where was I?’

  ‘The crash.’

  ‘No,’ the farmer said, playing him like an angler with a trout, ‘I hadn’t got to that – I was talking about the winter.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’

  But the farmer was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame and was not to be rushed. His eyes flickered craftily towards Drew. ‘Anyway, what about my yows? That crash’ll have scared them half to death. There’ll be a few abortions and stillbirths come lambing time.’

  Drew gave him a knowing smile. ‘I’m sure you already know how to apply for compensation. Now, about the aircraft?’ he asked, a note of desperation creeping into his voice.

  ‘It came around yon hill, very fast and low. I’d only just gathered my yows to fodder them and the noise of it scattered them like a fox in a henhouse.’

  ‘The crash…’ Drew said wearily.

  ‘I were just telling you,’ the farmer replied indignantly. ‘It came over the hill, just there over what we call Robin Hole – it’s a cave that goes back about twenty yards into the hillside. It has a spring that has never been dry in all my life, nor my father’s neither.’

  ‘But what happened to the aircraft?’ Drew felt a mounting urge to seize the man by the throat and strangle the story out of him.

  ‘I’d be able to tell you, if you didn’t keep interrupting. It came over Robin Hole, like I said, and then just sort of dropped out of the sky.’

  ‘Did you see an explosion or any smoke or flames before the crash?’

  ‘I didn’t see anything like that, just the plane flying along and then hitting the hillside. It fair shook me up, I can tell you. Now about my compensation…’

  Drew looked at him with distaste. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful,’ he said. ‘I’m sure the official accident investigator will be very interested to hear all about your sheep.’

  ‘It’s been my pleasure,’ the farmer said. ‘I hope he’s as good a listener as you.’

  Hearing the clatter of the Sea King’s rotors, Drew turned away and walked back up the field. He briefed the incoming relief guard and saw his own team safely on their way back to base, the chef still grumbling as the helicopter took off.

  The downwash from the helicopter whipped up a whirlwind of dead leaves, a couple sticking to the tailpipes of the crashed Tempest. Within seconds the leaves were smouldering and then bursting into flame. Drew stared at them for a long time, watching the skeletons of the leaves show through and then crumble as the leaves disintegrated into ash.

  ‘Looks like it’ll be a while longer before we can start examining the engines.’

  Drew jumped in surprise and wheeled around. A blue Rover had pulled into the farmyard as the Sea King was taking off and its two occupants had walked up the field and joined Drew at the still-smouldering wreckage.

  He gave a broad smile of recognition. ‘Hello, Tom, good to see you.’ He checked, half-embarrassed. ‘In the circumstances, that is, if you know what I mean.’

  Tom nodded sympathetically. ‘I know what you mean.’

  ‘You’re still with the Accident Investigation Board then? I thought you’d be back flying by now.’

&
nbsp; ‘No such luck,’ Tom said, shooting a sidelong glance at his companion. ‘I’ve still got another few months in Brussels. I’m counting the days till I get back in the cockpit again.’

  ‘Even when you keep seeing things like this?’ Drew asked, gesturing to the wreckage.

  He nodded. ‘Even when I see things like this. You know the aircrew motto, Drew: it won’t happen to me.’

  There was a pause, broken as Tom’s companion cleared his throat peremptorily.

  ‘Sorry, Richard,’ Tom said, giving Drew the ghost of a wink. ‘You haven’t met Drew, have you? Flight Lieutenant Drew Miller, this is Squadron Leader Richard Enfield, who’s leading the accident investigation.’

  Enfield acknowledged Drew’s greeting with a barely perceptible nod then cleared his throat again. Drew decided that it was a mannerism he could very quickly grow to dislike.

  ‘Let’s get on, shall we?’ Enfield said, his clipped speech, almost colourless grey eyes and very short iron-grey hair, emphasising the austerity of his manner.

  Drew briefed them on what he knew of the crash and the steps taken to protect the site. ‘There’s also a witness. The farmer down there saw the aircraft come down. Don’t start a conversation with him if you haven’t got plenty of time to spare, but if you live long enough he may finally get to the point.’

  Tom smiled; Enfield merely gave a brief nod. ‘Any sign of the accident data recorder?’

  ‘Not that I could see.’ He gestured towards the tailpipes. ‘I imagine you’ll find it under those.’

  Enfield grunted in agreement, then said curtly, ‘Thank you, that will be all.’

  Tom intercepted the look Drew directed at Enfield’s back as he turned and walked away into the wood.

  ‘Don’t mind him, it’s just his way. He’s actually quite a nice bloke when you get to know him.’

  ‘I’ll have to take your word for that.’

  Tom glanced at him, trying to read the expression on his face. ‘So it was a pretty messy one, was it?’ Drew nodded slowly, his lips compressed. ‘Did you know the guys?’

  ‘I knew the nav, yeah. I went through training with him.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s bad enough hearing about a friend’s death. It’s even worse when you’re the one who has to deal with the body.’

  He waited for a reply, but Drew said nothing, his eyes staring at the thin plume of grey smoke drifting upwards from the wreckage of the jet.

  Tom watched him thoughtfully. ‘You know, Drew, we both see a lot of crashes and they’re often people we know, but there’s always one that really hits you hard.’

  Drew looked up suspiciously but Tom’s face, framed by a mop of dark-brown hair, was open and friendly.

  ‘When I came up for officer training,’ Tom said, ‘I was just a raw lad from Wigan surrounded by what looked and sounded to me like a lot of entrants for the Upper Class Twit of the Year.’ His Lancashire accent grew even broader as he summoned up the memory.

  ‘Only one bloke befriended me at first, Michael Flynn. He was from Belfast and felt just as out of place among all the Ruperts as I did. We became really good mates but we lost touch when we were posted.

  ‘The first incident I had to go to after I joined the AIB was the crash that killed him. His nose wheel collapsed as he landed and the jet just flipped over.’

  Drew started to say something in reply, then frowned and shook his head. They both stood in silence for a couple of minutes, then Drew squared his shoulders. ‘I’ll have to be getting back, Tom.’ He paused. ‘We must have a beer together sometime; it would be a real pleasure to meet somewhere that wasn’t a crash site for a change.’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Tom shook Drew’s hand, then turned to follow Enfield up into the wood.

  The investigators went about their business, taking photographs, notes and measurements, Enfield pausing occasionally to give Drew a curious look. There was nothing more for him to do at the site, yet Drew was reluctant to leave.

  Finally, Enfield walked back down through the wood to where Drew was standing, still staring unseeingly into the smoking wreckage.

  Enfield cleared his throat once more. ‘Was there something else you had to tell us?’

  Drew’s eyes came back into focus. He turned his head to glance briefly at Enfield, then looked away, shaking his head. ‘Nothing you’d understand.’

  He took a long final look round the crash site. Then he walked slowly down the hill and, ignoring the still-hovering farmer, drove off down the narrow, rutted track.

  It was a perfect winter morning, a pale sun shining from a cold, cloudless sky, but Drew had no thoughts for the day or the gradually unfolding landscape as he followed the road winding alongside the river down the dale.

  His mind was filled with blazing warning lights, wailing sirens and earth and sky spinning faster and faster until everything ended in a scream of tortured metal and a detonation that shook the earth.

  He was jerked back to reality by the insistent blaring of a horn. He looked up to see the Land Rover drifting well over the crown of the road, into the path of a cattle truck pounding up the dale. He hauled frantically on the wheel. The cattle truck filled his windscreen for a moment, then there was a crack as Drew’s wing mirror shattered.

  The truck hurtled by, the driver screaming abuse above his blaring horn, while the cattle thrown around in the truck added their own bellows of protest.

  Drew pulled into the side, his heart pounding and his brow clammy with sweat. He got out, walked down to the edge of the river and bathed his face in the icy water. Then he went back to the Land Rover and drove on down the dale, the music blasting from the radio drowning out the clamour of his thoughts.

  Chapter Two

  It took Drew another hour to drive back to Finnington. As he crested the last hill before the windswept flatlands on the edge of the Plain of York, he saw the base ahead of him, sprawling over twenty square miles. Again, he pulled into the side of the road for a moment.

  From this distance Finnington could almost have been any small town – a ring of suburbs surrounding a cluster of shops, banks and churches – but for the vast expanse of grey concrete at its heart. As Drew watched, a formation of Tempests flew in from the east, the sun glinting on their wings as they banked to make their approach to the runway.

  He drove on down to the base, his black mood deepening. He left the Land Rover outside Hangar Seven and hurried away as a mechanic began tutting over the shattered wing mirror.

  Drew should have checked in with his squadron before going home to try to get some sleep, but his nerve failed him as he hesitated in the corridor outside the crew room. He could not face the laughter and noisy banter of his crewmates and was about to turn and slip away, when a hand touched his shoulder.

  He whipped round. ‘Bloody hell, Nick. You scared the life out of me.’

  His navigator laughed. ‘Nerves of steel. Just what I like to see in the pilot I entrust my life to five times a week.’ His smile faded as he studied Drew’s face. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Drew muttered, trying to ease past him.

  ‘Are you sure? You look rough as guts.’

  ‘Honestly, Nick. It’s nothing. I’m just tired.’

  Nick put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Nothing my arse. What’s up?’

  Drew shook his head, but Nick maintained his hold on Drew’s arm.

  ‘Look, I’m fine. I’m off home for a kip, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  Nick reluctantly released Drew and stepped aside. He watched him walk down the corridor, then shrugged and pushed open the crew-room door.

  Drew made his way slowly out along the main road through the base. All he wanted was to get back to his flat and close the door on the last twenty-four hours, but it seemed to him that every single one of the three thousand servicemen on the base and their five thousand dependants were trying to cross the road in front of him. He held his impatience in check and eventually left the crowds behind
as he passed the last of the housing estates and two-storey blocks of flats in the suburbs just inside Finnington’s perimeter fence.

  Clear of the barrier, he joined the high-speed procession down the A1. He concentrated hard on his driving, the memory of his earlier near miss with the cattle truck still vivid in his mind. Twenty minutes later, he eased through the gates of a converted Georgian mansion on the north side of the town square.

  He killed the engine, then sat for a moment, looking around the immaculately manicured grounds and watching the branches of the ancient cedar waving hypnotically in the breeze.

  At last he hauled himself wearily out of his car and walked over to the house, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. Letting himself into the dark, echoing hall, he picked up his mail, arranged on a silver salver like the visiting cards of society ladies, and walked upstairs to his flat.

  Drew dumped his letters unread on the table, made some coffee and then slumped down in an armchair, listlessly turning the pages of a newspaper.

  He awoke with a start. The newspaper still lay across his lap, but the room was in darkness. He looked around for a moment, then swore and leapt to his feet, groped his way to a light switch, then swore a second time as he looked at his watch and saw the time.

  He rushed to the bathroom, brushed his teeth and dragged a comb across his head, then grabbed some fresh clothes from the wardrobe and hurriedly changed. He ran downstairs, still buttoning his shirt, and sprinted down the drive and out through the gates.

  Finnington Hall stood just below the town square, its grounds sweeping down to the river. Drew rushed up the drive but then paused for a moment, trying to compose himself. Then he hurried up the steps and burst into the foyer of the restaurant, banging the door against the wall. He scanned the startled faces at the bar, then saw Josie at a side table.

  As he walked across to join her, she glanced up and gave him a quizzical look.