The celestial clamour of metal meeting earth has once again rent the Californian skies. Eight US airmen are no more, their B-52 Stratofortress transformed into a smouldering monument to mechanical hubris. The Pentagon, in a statement so achingly predictable it could have been written by a lobotomised press secretary, has blamed 'mechanical failure'.
Oh, how marvellously convenient. As if the universe's most complex flying machine, a behemoth of cold war terror, simply decided to have a snooze mid-flight. One can almost hear the ghosts of engineers past, spinning in their graves like gyroscopes.
Perhaps the 'failure' was a loose screw in the head of the maintenance crew, or a faulty reading from the Pentagon's moral compass. Eight families will tonight receive the kind of call that shatters the soul, a call that begins with regret and ends in silence. And what will they be left with?
A platitude, a pension, and the faint, bitter taste of a story that smells of secrets. I propose a different headline: 'Eight Heroes Vaporised by Bureaucratic Ineptitude, Country Wrings Hands, Considers New Envelope Design for Condolence Letters.' The B-52, a plane old enough to draw a pension itself, has been the backbone of American air power.
But perhaps the spine is showing cracks. Perhaps it is time to admit that the romance of the flying fortress has curdled into a death trap. But no, we shall blame 'mechanical failure' and move on, because the alternative requires introspection, and there is no budget for that.
As I raise my glass of airport gin (a G&T, naturally, with a slice of lemon that has seen better days), I salute the fallen. May your next flight be smoother, and may the Pentagon one day get a grip on reality, as opposed to just gripping at straws.
