Toxic Oz
The brilliant white plane dipped its nose as its four jet engines throttled up in power. The RAF Vulcan bomber was at 10,000 feet, the scorching Australian sun shimmering off the white metal. The V winged aircraft flashed in a perfect sky like a mile high lighthouse beacon. A clipped public school accent of the pilot crackled in his microphone flight mask. “I’m beginning run. 4 minutes to target, everything fine over.” The bomb doors were open now; a single big blue cylinder awaiting release. A distant voice crackled back in his earphone. “Roger flight 14 dusting is a go, over.” The pilot gripped the flight stick tightly his instruments readings critical as his plane began to swoop down. The altimeter spiralled down 10, 8, 6, the height dropping by the thousands in mere seconds. …