I told him I'd got to ditch.
I understand you're not familiar with this type of airplane. We could try talking you down into Ponta Delgada.
The display lights had begun swinging again, and I braced the control column in my arms. The sound of the jets had started to fade. I said, 'Look, you'd better stand off a bit in case I let things slip. We don't – we don't want any collisions. Tell – tell your friend too.'
What kind of shape are you in?
'Bit snuffed. Listen -' then it started again, and the whole thing blacked out.
… Mr Locke? Can you hear me?
'Yes. I think -'
Why are you losing altitude?
I looked at the instruments. We were down to 2000 feet and the needle was still falling. Pulled the control column back, overdid it, felt the plane shuddering. There was a ringing sound from the cabin behind me: the cylinders had started shifting under the vibration.
Knock two of these things together a bit too hard and we're gonners, kerbooom.
The US pilot had asked me something about altitude but it wasn't important. The important thing was to stay conscious for long enough to put this thing down, get it out of the air, out of harm's way.
'Look,' I said, 'I'm going to ditch now. You'd better keep your distance.'
I could talk you down into the Azores. I think we should do that, Mr Locke. It's not all that tough, if you've flown a jet before. We -
This is Air Traffic Control, Ponta Delgada. You are not permitted to land at this airport. Please acknowledge.
There was something I should be thinking about.
Please acknowledge.
He had a thick accent.
'Would you repeat that?'
Yes. You are not permitted to land at this airport. Please acknowledge.
They'd picked up the stuff about the explosives.
'Right. I can't land at your airport.'
I ought to be thinking about what Major Franklin had said, not to be taken lightly, perhaps. About talking me down. I mean if I was going to put this thing in the sea, maybe we could do it gently, take the thousandth chance.
We regret. Azores. There is risk of damage because of the explosives. But we have despatched two air-sea rescue helicopters and we would like to know your present position, altitude and heading.
I checked the panel and told them.
Okay, Mr Locke, so we'll talk you down onto the sea.
The major.
I kept the control column braced in my arms. The sound of the jets had faded again, but I realised it was because the two Air Force planes had done what I'd said, moved away a bit in case of accidents. Through the windscreen I watched the Atlantic below me, not far away, black and endless, glittering in the moonlight, flecked with crests.
Not hospitable.
Mr Locke, can you hear me?
'Yes. Thinking.'
The ringing from the cabin back there was still going on, like the bells of a temple in Tibet.
Blood in the mouth, I couldn't get the taste of it out.
Black water below.
We were at 1500 feet. I'd been letting the control column go.
I said, 'Yes, all right. Much obliged.'
Okay, this is going to be a gear-up, flaps-down landing. Leave -
'Look, when I hit the sea, you'd better keep your distance. I'd make it at least a couple of miles.'
Will do. Thank you for your concern. Now get your flaps down.
I saw the two fighters sliding away on both sides, becoming small, becoming silhouettes.
This is Ponta Delgada. Your position, please.
Gave it to them.
That is good. Heading, altitude, airspeed, please.
Gave it to them. The sea was close now, lines of white crests across black water. The starfields dipped and rose in the windscreen, I suppose there was a wind blowing, perhaps a gale, I couldn't find the instrument that would give me the windspeed.
Okay, now let's have your landing lights on.
I began looking for the switch. There were hundreds.
We are still with you, if you need us.
London, Shatner's voice. Support, I suppose, moral support for the ferret in the field, correction, ferret in the sea.
We need those lights on. There should be a group of switches, maybe on your – okay, you found it, great.
Suddenly the sea was close, floodlit, the waves glittering, the troughs running deep. I used the controls, moving into a turn, bringing the aircraft into line with the swell.
That's great. That's really great. You're looking good. Now start checking your radio-altimeter.
The needle was at 900 feet.
I could feel the weight of the aircraft under the controls, the vibration in the seat as we lowered towards the waves, the bulkheads creaking, the bells sounding all the time from behind me. A strap had broken somewhere, and there were some cylinders loose.
Sweat running on me suddenly, a feeling of heat as the organism reacted chemically to what the mind knew.
How d'you feel?
'Fair to middling. Does this look all right?'
Okay, get the nose up a little, say five degrees, can you do that?
500 feet on the radio-altimeter, 400, 300.
I pulled the control column back a bit, felt the mass of the plane shift, heard the bells, loud now, sounding the alarm, not used to this aircraft, the sea vanishing below the windscreen, tilting back as I corrected, Jesus we were -
Trim her back a little, back a degree.
200 feet, 100.
Huge troughs in the black water, the crests breaking, foaming under the ashen light of the moon, a big sea running -
Nose up, bring the nose up, get it up now, bring -
The whole aircraft slackening, the crests breaking dead ahead through the windscreen, the dark mouth of a trough opening and the screen going white as the foam was flung against it, a shudder through the airframe and then a kind of silence, a hole in the night where nothing happened, then a second shudder and the bells ringing wildly back there as we hit water and the harness made a wall and I leaned into it and the sea broke over the screen and it blanked out and I stayed there with the deceleration forces clamping me against the straps, nothing I could do if I moved, couldn't move, stayed there and waited, the lights of the instrument panels swirling past my eyes and the sound of the jets dying and the sound of the sea taking over, the waves rising under 'the cabin and dropping again and the wind bringing white water off the crests.