Flyer Down

There was no way he could have known.

After a night takeoff, and having flown the precise departure clearance route, Colonel Benjamin Hunter’s concentration drifted from the T-33 jet he was guiding up through the solid cloud layer over Denver.                       

 Momentarily he thought of Carmen. Furrows deepened across his forehead.

He squinted his eyes, shook his head, then his concentration returned to flying. A smile brushed his lips. This was his element. His thousands of hours in the cockpit had honed his skills. His eyes swept  back and forth across the instrument panel, picking up information that his mind analyzed, then converted to action with slight adjustments of controls by feet and fingers. His scanning was keyed off the attitude indicator, heading pointer and airspeed, with frequent sweeps of engine and other flight instruments. When the large heading pointer edged off center a slight pressure by his right hand would bank the aircraft until the needle centered. Adjustments in airspeed were made in the same practiced way.

Abruptly his eyes swept above the panel when he broke through the clouds into a starlight sky. He glanced down. A full moon over his left shoulder bathed the top of the cloud deck a pale white. Momentarily, his subconscious attention to instruments and the vague, fleeting concern for his wife were washed from his thoughts by the beauty of the scene. He relaxed completely, a mortal being privileged to enjoy scenery reserved solely for those who fly. At moments like this, problems which had been important were insignificant. Personal concerns could only desecrate this sanctuary of stars, moon and snowy clouds.

He leveled off, six miles up, adjusted power and tuned in the omni range station ahead. He identified the broken tone that identified the station by comparing the code with the symbols on his flight plan, watched the needle, and changed heading three degrees. He glanced at his watch.

Four minutes later tranquility shattered. There was no warning. His head struck the left canopy when the sudden explosion ripped through the plane. The stick in his right hand wobbled uselessly. A red light flashed on in the cockpit. Severe vibrations threw him against the shoulder harness.

He recovered quickly from momentary, stunned inaction, pulled the throttle back, punched the mike button and called, “MAYDAY, MAYDAY,” the international distress signal.

      The flickering of flames reflecting on his mirror cut his emergency call short. He jerked his feet from the rudders and slid his heels firmly into the stirrups against the seat. He was sitting in a dead bird, now rolling right, out of control. He threw his head back, flipped the helmet visor down then pulled the “green apple”, the knob that cut in his emergency oxygen supply. He yanked the left armrest. A blast of frigid air whipped into the cockpit when the canopy blew. He squeezed the right armrest trigger and the hard jolt of the ejection seat hit a split second before the full force of the slipstream smashed against him. This may have been a reminder. He pushed hard, kicking the seat away.