The Aviator

It is a long way from Copenhagen to Aberdeen. It is an especially
long way if you are flying an elderly Piper Apache. The majority of the
flight is over the sea. At two hundred miles per hour and at a height
of five thousand feet, the only event that would take place quickly
would be the time from failure of both engines to the impact with the
sea. An Apache can almost cope with failure of one of its two engines.
If the remaining engine can be persuaded to develop full power, it is
generally possible to stay in the air although it is preferable to find
somewhere to land at the earliest opportunity. Regrettably, the open
sea is rather short of suitable places to land.

The pilot relaxed in the worn leather seat and allowed his gaze to take
in the pale moon, just visible through the scattered clouds. Soon, he
thought, the weather would close in completely. The five passengers
behind him were either trying to doze or staring out of the crazed
Perspex windows. To all intents and purposes, the pilot was alone in
the aircraft.
He turned the volume up on the radio and listened to the silence,
broken only infrequently by distant aircraft requesting Copenhagen's
weather. He switched channels to the International Emergency frequency.
All aircrews are required to monitor this frequency as a matter of
course. As usual, the hiss of static was the only evidence that the
radio was functioning correctly.

The pilot reached above his head and switched to the primary radio. As
he did, he heard a voice. He hurriedly switched back to the emergency
frequency. Silence. Even turning the volume up high did not produce so
much as a whisper. Resignedly, he changed again to his primary
communications radio. He scanned the instrument panel. All was in
order. There was nothing to disrupt the progress of the flight. A
nagging voice in his head insisted that there had been a voice on the
emergency frequency. A voice that would not be still. He reached up and
switched to the second radio. The silence and unbroken static mocked
his doubts. The pilot forced his hand towards the channel switch. As
his fingers touched the selector, he heard the voice in his headset
very faint but clear. A voice speaking English. The pilot pressed the
transmit button.
"Station calling on Emergency Frequency, this is Piper Apache aircraft
receiving you strength three. Say your message." He listened intently.
Nothing. The aircraft droned on into the night. He tried again.
"Station calling emergency, say your position and nature of emergency."
The reply came back instantly.
"We can hear you. Can you help us? We are drifting and in danger of
sinking."
"Yes, I hear you but I need to know your position before I can help
you. Do you know where you are?"
"We are the sailing ship Samuel Taylor. Please help us. We are sinking.
For God's sake, help us&;#8230;&;#8230;&;#8230;.." The voice
tailed off into silence. The pilot pressed the transmit button
again.
"Samuel Taylor, stand by. I will try to get a radio fix on your
position and get some help on the way. Hang on." The nearest Air
Traffic centre was Amsterdam. With any luck, they should be able to
hear the sailing ship and get a reasonably accurate position for it. To
the dismay of the pilot, he was unable to make contact with Amsterdam.
He tried Aberdeen without success. It seemed that he was unable to make
contact with any station at all. In desperation, he switched back to
the Emergency frequency.
"Mayday,mayday,mayday. This is Piper aircraft Golf Alpha Victor. Any
station receiving me?" There was no response. He concluded with dismay
that both radios had failed. Radio failure on this particular aircraft
happened with monotonous regularity. The pilot noted with some concern
that the visibility had deteriorated dramatically and that ice was
starting to form on his windshield. Despite the failure of the radios,
the voice in his headset was stronger now.
"Can you help us. The water is coming faster now and we shall surely
sink. Help us for pity's sake."
"You sound much louder. Perhaps you are quite close. Can you hear my
engines?"
"I hear nothing but the wind. Please hurry. We have little time left."
The voice was now booming in the pilot's headset. The ship must be very
close indeed.

He turned to the passengers.
"Sorry people, there is a ship in trouble very close to here. I have to
go down and look for her. Keep your eyes peeled. It is apparently a
sailing ship and sinking fast according to the radio." He wondered why
he could hear the messages from the ship. He would worry about that
later.
He reduced power and started to descend. The ice forming on the
windshield was getting thicker and the de-icers seemed to be
ineffective. As the aircraft descended, swirls of water vapour danced
around the tips of the idling propellers and flew in streams from the
wingtips. Forward visibility was non existent. From the side window,
the pilot could catch an occasional glimpse of the steel grey sea
below. One thousand feet. Dangerous to go lower in this fog. Again, the
voice from the ship spoke. By now it was so loud that he did not even
need the headset. He tore it off his head and threw it on the
floor.
"Samuel Taylor, I hear you very clearly now. I am searching for you.
Can you hear my engines yet?"
"I think that you are very close, my friend but I fear you may be too
late. The water is rising fast."
The pilot peered through the side window, his face pressed against the
glass. Nothing but the sea and the thick swirling fog. Then he saw it.
A large two masted schooner, listing at an alarming angle with the port
side of the deck almost under the water. The naked masts had a thick
coating of ice and the rigging sagged under the weight.
"I see you! I see you! I will get a fix on your position and help will
be here very soon. Hang on!" The pilot pushed the throttles forward and
pulled the aircraft into a climb.

As he turned his face away from the side window to look forward, he was
just in time to see the huge white sea bird in front of the windshield.
The impact of such a massive bird was sufficient to crash through the
double thickness laminated glass, totally devastating the flight deck.
One huge, black tipped wing smashed into the pilot's face, throwing his
head backwards and breaking his neck. The body of the bird carried on
into the cabin, decapitating the people in the front two passenger
seats. The unconscious pilot slumped forward, pushing the control
column. The aircraft obediently responded to the unintentional control
input by nosing over into a terminal dive. Under full power and with
the steep angle of the dive, the Apache was travelling at a speed in
excess of two hundred and ten miles per hour as it hit the unyielding
surface of the water. The aircraft disintegrated on impact, killing the
three remaining passengers instantaneously.

Incredibly, the pilot was thrown clear and although terribly injured,
managed to swim towards the stricken Samuel Taylor. Exhausted, he
reached the side and hands reached out to pull him from the freezing
water. He looked up at his rescuer. Clad in tattered, filthy rags, he
was a pale, haggard man with a long grey beard. The old man's eyes
burned like fire as he dug talon-like fingers into the pilot's arm. As
if in a trance, the pilot realised that he was unable to move. He was
sure that his death was very close. He faced the old man and summoning
up the last of his strength, forced himself to speak.
"Who&;#8230;who are you?"
"It's a very long story," the old man said, "but as we now have all the
time in the world, I will tell you."

He held him with his skinny hand. "There was a ship," he began.