A Little Knowledge (flashfic)

(written as a low-effort warmup exercise)

I’m something of an aviation enthusiast.

On departing Gatwick Airport towards the South, a plane will usually only have clearance to climb to around 4,000 feet. This is part of its Standard Instrument Departure. In practice, flights will often get clearance to climb beyond this altitude quickly, so the degree to which the step climb is noticeable to passengers is marginal.

If neither pilot alters the autopilot settings that were set on the ground, ignoring all Air Traffic Control instructions, the plane will continue on its merry way at 4,000 feet, until it reaches a point where it needs further instruction. For some flights, this might not be until it’s on approach to its destination.

The route from London Gatwick to Jersey airport is one such flight. Departing from runway 26L, we climbed to 4,000 feet on the SID to the ‘NOVMA’ waypoint, then to Southampton. From there, it was just a hop south, then an approach to Jersey.

Just short of NOVMA, roughly thirty seconds before Gatwick Director called in to have us climb to our cruising altitude, both pilots were decapitated.

An incorrect procedure had been used in a recent repair, and the heavy bolts securing the windscreen sheared away, leading to the entire construction tipping into the cockpit. The edge of the glass at neck level, in an instant both men were deprived of their crania, unable to provide the autopilot with the guidance required to make a landing.

This caused a degree of panic. I, of course, noticed that the overhead oxygen supplies had not deployed, indicating the cabin altitude was no higher than 10,000 feet. I tried to explain this to the whimpering old man in the seat next to me, but he didn’t listen.

Autopilot being what it is, we proceeded on our programmed route without further climb. The cabin crew began to use their trolley as a battering ram, slamming against the solid flight deck door. It was perfectly safe from all trespassers, even without the heavy glass that held it fast against its moorings.

The English Channel sparkled below, the jewels of Alderney and Guernsey just visible on the horizon. We would circle here at 250 knots until our fuel expired, sending us plummeting to the azure surface below.

A jet, scrambled from RAF Brize Norton to intercept us, came alongside us just abeam of the French coast. A young man pressed his nose against the window to watch the jet, its sleek form a shadow against the setting sun. The pilot, unable to do anything to render assistance, raised a gloved hand and waved.