Silent Flight Holy Night

By Colin Campbell

YOU CAN FIND HOPE IN ALL SORTS OF PLACES 

BUT REDEMPTION ONLY COMES FROM WITHIN 

The Christmas flight to Lapland for orphans from

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Elevate
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781685126001

Book preview

Colin Campbell

SILENT FLIGHT HOLY NIGHT

First published by Level Elevate 2024

Copyright © 2024 by Colin Campbell

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Colin Campbell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Author Photo Credit: Colin Campbell

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-68512-600-1

Cover art by Level Best Designs

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

Find out more at reedsy.com

Publisher Logo

For Marc Glick

Gone too soon

Never forgotten

Foreword

This book was written in 2007. At that time, there really was a special flight to Lapland for disadvantaged children. It was sponsored by Yorkshire Television, and featured prominently on their teatime Calendar program and other news networks. The children got to visit an icy Santa’s grotto and take a sleighride in the snow. The plane didn’t crash in a blizzard, but that’s where the idea came from. Shame on me.

Praise for Books by Colin Campbell

Very real. And very good.—Lee Child

Campbell writes smart, rollercoaster tales with unstoppable forward momentum and thrilling authenticity.—Nick Petrie

Fantastic story, fantastic characters - fantastic everything.—Chris Mooney, International bestselling author of the Darby McCormick series

Tonight

Night painted the snowscape an unearthly grey; sawtooth treetops standing out against the blizzard like hungry jaws waiting to swallow whatever came their way. What was coming their way, through the roar of the storm and the stinging snowflakes, was a twin-engined silver bird flying too low for comfort and too fast for safety. It skimmed the Lapland pines in a last-ditch effort to gain height, and as it cleared the ridge, the pilot was given hope that he may have succeeded, but it was a forlorn hope.

Mayday. Mayday. We’re going down.

A shallow valley opened up below but it wasn’t deep enough or long enough to allow the Boeing 737 time to recover. Cabin lights shone out through the windows along either side, frightened faces contorted into silent screams visible if there had been anyone to see. There was no one, just the silent night and the raging storm battling the roar of the airliner’s engines. Up front the captain threw a sad little glance and nodded to the co-pilot.

Airspeed’s as slow as we’re going to get it.

I know.

They both glanced through the reinforced windscreen but could only see the swirling snowflakes attacking the glass. A pair of brilliant headlamp beams scythed through the night but there was nothing to see except the blizzard, then suddenly there was a break in the dancing white demons and for a brief moment they could see the valley open up before them. It was the flattest piece of land they could hope for after the ridge, and it was disappearing fast. Act now, or the plane would be halfway up the opposite valley wall and… curtains. The captain acted on instinct.

Full flaps. Landing doors open.

He pulled back on the throttle and flicked four switches. The plane shuddered and he was thrust forward at the sudden deceleration. The co-pilot hit the row of green buttons in sequence, and a deep throbbing hum vibrated beneath the roar of the engines.

Doors open.

The valley was rushing towards them beyond the windows.

We’re not going to have time.

The captain ignored the plea, flipped up the protective covers, and hit the landing gear buttons. A heavier vibration thrummed beneath them, and the co-pilot kept his eyes glued to the control panel.

Almost down.

Gigantic wheels lowered out of the nose, and the belly of each engine, slowing the plane even further. There was no landing strip but they needed all the space they could muster to help soften the blow. The valley floor was rippled with snowdrifts but it was impossible to tell if they were solid or simply vagaries of the wind. The lower they got the faster the snowdrifts whizzed past.

Almost.

They were so close to the ground now that the captain was surprised they hadn’t touched down. He said a silent prayer under his breath, then opened the cabin mike.

Brace positions everybody.

His voice sounded calm over the main cabin speakers, imbuing the scene with an unreal sense of the everyday. The co-pilot ignored the approaching ground, his knuckles white as he watched the panel. The captain glared at the snowscape as if demanding that it wait a few more minutes. An almost imperceptible bleep from the console and the co-pilot shouted above the engines.

Locked.

The landing gear was down. Pulling back on the yoke, the captain gritted his teeth. They both stared out of the window. The valley wall rushed towards them, the rippling snowdrifts almost finished, then the wheels tore into the uneven ground and the world was turned upside down.

Pre Flight

Leeds/Bradford Airport

Impact - Minus 26hrs

The Christmas plane crash made headlines in seventeen countries, not because of where it was or the time of year but because of who the passengers were. Exactly the same reason in fact that the annual flight to Lapland had only ever been local news for the five years it had been running. Twenty-seven underprivileged children, three social workers, two teachers, and one thorn-in-the-side who didn’t even want to be there.

* * *

Father Christmas doesn’t exist, you sad sack.

Danny Scipio considered this piece of information in a very un-thorn-in-the-side like manner, appearing to turn it over in his mind before making a decision. The speaker waited patiently for the desired reaction and prepared to duck. They were standing opposite the card shop in the airport lounge while the rest of the children pored over magazines in WH Smith like a plague of locusts. The display stand in the doorway held birthday cards arranged in age groups and the section that had caught Danny’s eye was the one with 14 plastered across the front. The reason they caught his eye was because he never received one when he departed the landmark age of 13, unlucky for some. An age that Gary Hingely was still very much stuck with.

Never did, Gary added for good measure.

Danny turned away from the birthday cards and looked down at the squat, overweight bully who somehow managed to avoid the thorn-in-the-side label by only lighting the blue touch paper and never being around when the fireworks went off. Gary Hingely was shorter and fatter than Danny, whose skinny frame was cause for concern among the nutritionists at Delph Hill Children’s Home, and the lack of height obviously fuelled his need to cause trouble. Sharing the home with so many educationally challenged children simply gave him plenty of easy targets. Danny was the one he liked winding up the most though.

Not even when you were a twinkle in your granddaddy’s eye.

Danny knew what Hingely was doing, but it didn’t matter. He never shied away from an argument, and there was nobody in the world he’d rather argue with than Gary Hingely.

That why you told Tiny he’d been gored to death by his reindeer three days before Christmas?

Hingely stepped back, seeing that the fuse had been lit.

Danny continued. And that they were serving reindeer burgers on the flight?

Colour was bleeding up Danny’s neck and into his cheeks. He matched Hingely’s step, keeping the distance between them close. Hingely backed away once more, coming up short against the display stand.

And is that why you told everyone to wear black armbands on the coach?

On the plane.

Wherever.

Danny’s hands bunched into fists. Because if Father Christmas never existed, then whose body was in the red suit? And whose blood was on Rudolph’s antlers?

Hingely couldn’t go back any farther and tried sidling to his right instead. When hatching his latest antisocial behaviour plan, he should have chosen the location a little better. Some famous general or other, Patton, he thought, had once said, Never go into battle without covering your escape route. Or was it Oddball in Kelly’s Heroes? Our tank has three speeds in reverse. We like to think we can get out of trouble faster than we got into it. Close enough, because he had clearly overlooked that important piece of advice. He hadn’t covered his escape route, and he didn’t have three speeds for getting out of trouble. He glanced towards WH Smith for help, but the teachers were busy keeping order, and the social workers were nowhere to be seen.

Come on, Danny. Just kidding.

Hingely feinted right, then dodged left. Danny shadowed his every move, keeping right in front of his nemesis. He could feel the blood pumping in his temples and knew the headache wouldn’t be far behind. Anger management had failed again. Strike one against the social workers.

Well, I’m not.

His throat became dry. And since we’re flying to Lapland so these… He flapped one hand towards the other children, unable to come up with a suitable description for the group of society’s cast-offs. …can go meet Santa. I think it proves just what a slimy beast you really are.

Gary held up his hands in surrender. Okay. I give up. My mistake. Sorry.

Danny lunged forward, then stopped. Gary flinched and shrunk away from the blows that never came. When he opened his eyes, Danny had stepped back. The release valve had been opened and the pressure building inside his head was easing. As always happened at this point, a million thoughts rushed through his mind, none of them relating to Gary Hingely or Father Christmas. They mainly hovered around the childhood he never had and the father he was trying to forget. He waved a dismissive hand at Gary and began to turn away.

Sound bled back into the waiting area before he realised it had even faded. Suitcases on wheels being dragged towards departure gates, muffled conversations of a dozen people checking the flight monitors, and the clink of glasses in the airport bar next to WH Smith. Somewhere in the distance, through full-length double-glazed windows, engine noise signalled that a Boeing 737 was manoeuvring into position on the runway. Twilight turned the sky into half night, and the runway lights stretched like Christmas decorations into the distance. Hot pie smells drifted across from the food village that was, in fact, a single take-away service hatch with a dozen tables, and Danny realised how hungry he was. His mouth began to water, now the dryness of the confrontation was over.

Gary Hingely, sensing his opportunity, threw one last barbed comment. But I know why you’re naffed off. And it isn’t ‘cos you want to see Santa.

Danny stood still, the pressure slamming back into his head. A bit old for that anyway, aren’t we?

He rubbed his temples, but the pain wouldn’t ease.

Gary stuck the knife in. It’s ‘cos nobody wanted you to come, but they couldn’t leave you behind.

Truth. That was always the weapon that hurt him the most. And his usual reaction to being hurt was to attack. In a flash, the angry teenager returned, and if he didn’t exactly turn green and rip through his clothes, he became The Incredible Hulk in all other respects. Gary Hingely smirked as he retreated from the blue touch paper, the fuse well and truly lit. An elderly couple pulling their trolley gasped in horror at the tall, skinny teenager as he roared with anger at the poor little fat boy.

The poor little fat boy was also the poor little stupid boy, because he hadn’t learned from his previous thoughts and checked his escape route. The card display still blocked his exit, and he hadn’t allowed enough time to open a gap between him and the rampaging Danny. Fists slammed into his chest, and he was immediately caught in a swirl of arms and legs.

Help, sir.

The cry was tinged with real fear and the teachers in WH Smith responded too late. Danny wrestled him to the ground, knocking the display stand over. Several passengers screamed. Birthday cards spilled across the concourse and someone slipped on them, crashing into the Evian display. Bottles of water joined the carnage, bouncing across the floor like transparent blue sausages.

The boys wrestled, neither getting the upper hand and both getting their hair pulled and heads banged. Several packets of Werther’s Originals were knocked off the counter when the cashier jerked back in shock. The favourite in-flight sweets joined the mess on the floor, mixing with plastic bottles and birthday cards, but the overall impression was of a sea of number 14s, the age Danny Scipio had reached without having learned anything from the previous thirteen years.

* * *

Mr Cox stood next to the hand dryer as Danny bathed the lump growing out of his forehead. The ground floor toilets were cleaner than the ones at school, but Danny still felt under the thumb of the authorities as he looked at himself in the mirror. This was just like a dozen playground fights at a dozen different schools with a dozen faceless teachers watching on.

Only Mr Cox wasn’t just another a faceless teacher, he was the only person the unruly boy had connected with since becoming a teenager, and the look of disappointment that Danny saw in the mirror hurt more than the bump on the head.

Danny, Danny, Danny.

The sound of disappointment hurt, too.

What am I to do with you?

Danny held a screwed-up paper towel under the cold tap. Let me go home, for starters.

You know I can’t do that. There’s nobody left to look after you.

I can look after myself.

Looks like it, doesn’t it?

The paper towel stung as Danny applied it to the bump. Mr Cox had a point. It was difficult to argue his case when every time he argued it he’d just finished fighting with someone for taking the Mickey out of him. Or taking the Mickey out of the other residents. Or just about anything. He tried anyway.

I’m fourteen now, you know.

Fourteen going on forty. Yes, I know.

Mr Cox pushed away from the wall, and the hand dryer came on by mistake. The noise was harsh in the confines of the washroom. He waited for it to stop.

"At least that means you’ve left thirteen