It’s Friday already and so it’s time for my guest writer slot. It gives me great pleasure to welcome back Murray Clarke. Murray has been a guest with his entertaining stories a few times. I’m sure you’ll enjoy his latest tale every bit as much as the others.

If you’d like to be a guest on my blog, please get in touch: estherchilton@gmail.com. Poems can be up to 60 lines and prose 2000 words. If you’d like to add a short bio and photo, then great.

Now, onto the story:

Come Fly With Me

By

Murray Clarke

‘You have control . . . Captain.’

‘I have control,’ I confirm.

Ever since I was a young boy and Dad showed me how to assemble a plastic model Spitfire, I’ve always wanted to be a pilot. To fly through the air, free as a bird! How brilliant would that be! I was highly delighted when a modest win on the lottery enabled my parents to fund the £100,000 needed for my training to become a Commercial Pilot!

I’ll never forget the day I first flew solo in a dual controlled Cessna. Mum and Dad were so proud of me! I was pretty chuffed too! Later, I was awarded my PPL – Private Pilots Licence, and well on the way to fulfilling my dreams.

Fast forward to today, and I’m sitting at the controls of a Boeing Triple Seven 300 – Captain William Barnard at your service! It’s a very impressive, wide-bodied aircraft, capable of carrying over 300 passengers. The 777 is Boeing’s first state-of-the-art “fly-by-wire” aeroplane. No pressure then! I’m certainly finding it quite a challenge!

I yawn loudly.

‘Late night, was it?’ asks my First Officer, the co-pilot, sitting in the seat to my right.

‘Newborn baby,’ I lie. Truth is, me and some of the lads from the Cricket Club had a few too many beers last night, and I didn’t get to bed till the early hours of the morning. My head’s pounding, and I’m struggling to keep awake.

I stare at the bewildering array of cockpit dials, knobs and switches in front of me, and try to stay focussed. Today, we are flying from JFK, New York, to LHR, London Heathrow – the UK’s busiest airport. However, the flight is not without its problems. Firstly, somewhere over the Atlantic, the Number One engine bursts into flames. We’ve only got two. Then we lose air pressure in the passenger cabin. If that’s not enough, the autopilot switches off, and there’s nothing I can do to restore it. I have no choice but to fly the aircraft manually. Fortunately, the engine and cabin pressure faults turn out to be nothing more than false alarms, thank God!

Later in the flight, I fail to notice a severe weather warning ahead, and instead of navigating around it, fly straight through the centre of a mega thunderstorm. Talk about bad turbulence!  

The end of the flight can’t come soon enough.

We finally cross the coast of the British Isles and adjust our heading towards LHR. Gradually, we begin our descent towards the capital. Suddenly, with just over 100 miles to go, we run into a nimbostratus low cloud base. This causes me extra stress, but, mercifully, a few minutes later, the weather improves and we have clear visibility. I can see the runway in the distance.

We’re now on the Final Approach and ATC, Air Traffic Control, gives us permission to land on Runway 27 left. We’ve successfully completed our Final Checklist, including extending the flaps and lowering the undercarriage. The landing appears to be going well, until, less than 300 feet from the ground, the First Officer yells: ‘Too fast! Abort! Go-around! Go-around!’

I instinctively move the thrust levers forward and the aircraft soars upwards – at the same time retracting the landing gear.

A minute later, a Ground Proximity Warning fills the cockpit: “Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!”

Paralysed with fear, I see a high mountain range in front of us getting closer and closer . . . and closer. But it’s too late! A loud buzzer sounds. A red light flashes intermittently, and all the instruments go blank.

‘Oh dear!’ sighs the First Officer. ‘Three hundred and fifty passengers, ten cabin crew, and two pilots – all of them dead! Not to mention a multi-million pound aeroplane written off!

‘You can thank your lucky stars, you’re only training in a Flight Simulator!’ added my Instructor. ‘Shall we reset, and go back to the Final Approach? And this time – try not to kill anybody . . . Mr. Barnard!’

***