Southend
4.
by MistThing, published on December 25, 2000
"23 July 1996.
Hello, Blake.
If you are reading my private notes, then something must have gone wrong...By now I guess you have met the Allisons, Annie at least."
Unknowingly, Gabriel smiled. He could almost hear Grace’s voice, dispersing the fog that clouded her image the last few hours. He sat back in the Allisons' armchair, running his finger along the hand-written tidy lines:
"-Writing this, I feel like a book keeper who maintains double account books, one for the IRS..." Gabriel laughed. "...But at this point I have no choice, Gabriel. Funny, I'm not even sure you're going to read this. I'll try to be brief. The last two weeks were kind of hectic for me. I left France for New York, but two days there with my parents were impossible for me to handle. I convinced my mother that I had to get to Scotland to do some research for my long forsaken PhD thesis. My thesis involves an intricate theory about clan dominance struggles in Scotland from the 12th century on (Don't worry, Gabriel, knowing your passion for historical details, I won't bore you with my theory)..."
Gabriel laughed again. "I Appreciate it, Gracie".
"...Anyway...I chose to reside at the Allisons' Southend Guest House, 'cause it seemed quiet and secluded enough. Of course, I stumbled across something else..."
"Of course," muttered Gabriel.
"...I made friends with Kirk and Annie, especially dear Annie. She told me about her only son being killed two years ago in a horrifying helicopter crash on the Mull of Kintyre, just a few miles from his own home. Kirk and Annie weren't pleased at the least with the conclusions reached by the British MoD (that's the Ministry of Defense, Gabriel). They tried repeatedly to uncover the mystery surrounding their son's death, but got nowhere. I promised Annie that I would try to find out more for her. Are you still with me, Gabriel?"
"I am now, Gracie," his hand caressed the densely packed words.
"...Lecture time, Gabriel, sorry... Right. This is what I have for now. On 2 June 1994 a RAF Chinook helicopter ZD576 crashed on the Mull of Kintyre. It was on its way from RAF Aldergrove in Northern Ireland to a top-level anti-terrorist conference in Inverness, Scotland. All twenty-nine people aboard were killed, including its two pilots. Among the dead were MI5, army, RUC intelligence officers, and four crew. In June 1995 the RAF (that's Royal Air Force, Gabriel) Board of Inquiry ruled out the possibilities of major technical or structural failure, hostile action or electromagnetic interference with the navigation equipment. In fact, it concluded that the two pilots were guilty of gross negligence."
"Sh*t..." mumbled Gabriel "I see trouble, Gracie..." He went on reading, though his fatigue was overwhelming him by now.
"...Get this, Gabriel: those were two highly trained, experienced pilots! I got down the following details:
1.The Chinook had neither a cockpit voice recorder, nor a flight data recorder.
2.It was supposed to be a low-level, daytime, passenger-carrying transit flight, in cloud-free weather conditions, under Visual Flight Rules.
3.Yet, when the Chinook crashed, it was flying high-speed, well bellow safety altitude, in cloud ... the Mull of Kintyre was fog-bound, and that meant – flying under Instrumental Flight Rules! The Chinook was supposed to climb to a safety altitude of 2800 feet, Gabriel!
4.They didn't try to turn away or turn back. They crashed, hitting ground at the height of 810 feet, about 600 feet below the top of the Mull, at high speed of 150 knots at impact."
Gabriel, appalled, closed Grace's notebook, though there were more crowded pages to read. "What did you get yourself into, Gracie?" He asked aloud, feeling lost now more then ever. How the hell can I help you, how can I find you, what made you throw yourself into this mess? He shouted angrily at her inside his head. He fought the tightness in his chest that made him take shallow, rapid breaths. He struggled the pressure of tears building inside his eyes, threatening to push out. Then he drifted into a restless sleep, after being continually awake for the worst twenty-six hours of his life.
...He was thrown into one of his dreams again. Gabriel's unique Schattenjäger abilities interweaved the surreal dream world into his everyday life, fine-tuning his mind to sense and to operate within this other form of reality. He was standing close to the edge of a cliff, the wind and the sun toying with his hair, and behind him stretched the never ending green, moist grass. The blue wide-open sea was deep below, white-crowned waves beating against the rock. The Mull of Kintyre. He closed his eyes, absorbing the sensations of distant freedom and happiness conveyed to him. He felt a presence behind him and turned around, his back to the abyss. The tall, portly warrior in front of him wore a knee-length glistening chain mail over a quilted tunic. Under his conical helmet, his blond long, tangled hair blew wild in the mounting wind. He carried a massive claymore and a long-handled battle-axe. Gabriel uttered his name: Alasdair mor. The warrior nodded and pointed to the sea. Defend, he said. His hand movement made his belt clash against his chain mail. The clang sound diverted Gabriel's attention to the Warrior's belt. It was a loose leather strap, with a metal badge buckled to it. The badge showed a hand holding a dagger pointing up. MacAlasdair, said the warrior, and then he repeated the name, pronouncing it differently: MacAlister.
Last update: October 24, 2007
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