Sparks Will Fly

Chapter One: "Tango Hotel Sierra is down…"

Hello readers! Welcome to my new story, Sparks Will Fly. Now, the idea for this story came to me while I was writing another fiction and I couldn't get it out of my head. I think it has potential, but then again, I am bias! The summary gives very little away on purpose and I don't want to ruin it! Please read, review and tell me what you think! No mindless flames, for I will ignore you if you do.

As in one of my other fictions, I strive to make sure any factual historical information I provide is correct, so as to not make a fool of myself. If you are eagle-eyed and so spot something, whether it be in my information or just grammar, do point it out.

Now, without further ado, I step aside and allow you to read on! Enjoy!

November 14th 1940

Somewhere over England…

"Stay in formation Sleek!" 'Bobby' snapped. "You know, this is why command sent us on this idiotic teamwork mission…"

"Oh yes, it's completely my fault; none of the blame goes to the hothead who blew our last mission, Bobby." He retorted.

Captain Thomas Hadrian Sparks shook his head in annoyance at the byplay over the radio. The verbal duels between the two went on for ages if they were left together for two long, and were also annoyingly frequent. Ignoring the passing jibes across the radio he glanced over his readouts to distract himself.

He, Michael McDoan (Sleek), Jeremy Brown (Bobby) and Ignatius Prewitt (Fire-pate) were part of No. 162 Squadron based at RAF Tangmere in Sussex.

The four of them, however had been pulled from active duty.

It wasn't as though they were a bad group of pilots; in fact they had been recognised and acknowledged as some of the most talented flyers in the RAF. The problem was that there were…clashing personalities amongst two of the pilots which caused issues on occasion.

During one of their most recent missions escorting bombers over the Channel, the clashing personalities of 'Bobby' and 'Sleek' almost cost the lives of not only themselves, but of three bomber crews. It was by the intervention of Sparks that the incident was averted.

However, it was reported to their superiors, and Fighter Command was not pleased.

McDoan and Brown were almost Court-Martialled for their actions, but escaped it due to their previous successes as pilots, while Sparks and Prewitt were blamed for even allowing things to escalate so far.

As punishment, the four of them had been pulled from duty until they could learn to work together as a unit. The only reason they hadn't been more severely punished was because they were flying aces and the RAF couldn't afford to lose them.

The fifth member of the group, Wing Commander John Andrew Green (Admiral) had been assigned to get the group working as a functional, well-oiled machine. He was a strict officer, but was well respected by his subordinates and by the majority of the pilots in their group.

All five of the pilots were flying the new Spitfire Mk III. This further annoyed command because they were wasting resources which should be geared to fighting the Luftwaffe, not being used for training unruly pilots. The only reason they hadn't been stripped of their planes was because of their talent and previous untarnished records.

McDoan and Brown had fobbed off the exercise as a pointless waste of time, resisting Green all the way. Green, however, was an extremely tough nut to crack, and they hadn't even made a dent. Before either pilot could continue the argument, said W.C. joined the chatter.

"Bobby, Sleek; stay off the radio unless you're giving an update. I don't want have to report either of you again." Green chastised in response. The channels fell silent as the words sunk in.

As he sat in the cockpit, Sparks could almost see the annoyed expressions of the two other pilots. He and Prewitt just needed to keep their heads down so they could return to active duty ASAP. Before he could think any more, a monotonous voice began to speak over the radio.

"Juliet Alfa Golf, this is Tangmere control, please respond; over." Almost immediately, Admiral responded over the radio.

"This is Juliet Alfa Golf, control; over."

"We're getting reports of heavy weather moving in; over. Extremely low visibility; over. Suggest returning to Tangmere; over."

"Roger that control, we'll start heading back; over and out." There was a brief pause before he spoke again. "Did you get that? We're heading back to Tangmere." Sparks picked up his mike to acknowledge his question.

"Affirmative Admiral." He replied.

"Affirmative."

"Roger."

"Got it."

The five Spitfires, flying in a winged formation, changed course and began to head back to RAF Tangmere. They had only been flying for about ten minutes, so it wouldn't take them long.

As the radio remained silent, Sparks caught a sight in his periphery vision. Turning his head a bit more for a good look, he his eyebrows shot into his hairline. A large billowing mass of storm clouds dominated the skyline behind them.

While control had warned them about the weather, he had never seen clouds form as quickly as they had just now. Frowning slightly, he picked up his mike.

"Hey Admiral; I know control warned us about the weather, but those clouds behind us are forming rather quickly." Looking at Green's cockpit, he saw him turn around for a better look at the overcast weather.

"You're right. No storm front should move that quickly." He paused for a moment. "Tangmere control, this is Juliet Alfa Golf, come in; over." The radio was silent. "Tangmere control, I repeat, this is Juliet Alfa Golf, come in; over." This time the radio was filled with unintelligible static.

While Green tried to contact control, the air became increasingly turbulent. Fighting to keep his plane steady, Sparks caught some more speech over the radio.

"…God, the storm…overtaking us. This is impos…no storm…quickly. I th…ook for somewhere to land until… passes…" The pauses were filled with static. Sparks grabbed his mike and glanced over at Green's plane.

"Admiral; can you repeat that? I did not copy." The reply was even more unintelligible static.

All of a sudden, the light from the sun was blotted out as the storm clouds enveloped the pilots. The visibility in front and behind became non-existent. Sparks looked out of his cockpit on both sides, trying to see his team, but could only see rain and black clouds. In the midst of the storm, flashes of lightning brightened his vision momentarily but he could still see nothing.

"Admiral, do you copy?" He began to panic. "Bobby? Sleek? Fire-Pate? Does anyone read me?!" He yelled. His only reply was static. He was alone.

The torrential rain battered against the glass of the cockpit, his visibility only extending to the propeller. Steadying his breathing, he began to formulate a plan of action.

"Right. I've got a good amount of fuel, not a problem for now." He said, verbalising his current thoughts. "Before the storm overtook us, we were on the right course for Tangmere. I'll just keep a southerly course until they re-establish radio contact." He glanced down as his read outs and paled when he looked at the compass.

It was spinning around in circles. He had no way to know whether he was heading in the right direction.

While his mind was whirring, trying to figure out a new course of action, a flash of lightning struck the fuselage of his plane. The read outs went haywire. The lights on the dashboard began to flash red, illuminating his face. Trying to maintain his cool, he looked over the instruments, trying to see what was broken and fix what he could.

As he did so, his luck went from bad to worse. A violent mechanical spluttering erupted from the front of the plane. His gaze shot upward. The prop began to jerk sporadically, black smoke pouring from the engine and mixing with the clouds. He fought to keep the blade turning but after a few minutes it stopped entirely.

He looked at his altitude gauge and growled in frustration; it read '00000 feet'. Since he was still in the air, he assumed it was broken. He felt the nose beginning to dip so he pulled back on the joystick, hoping to keep her airborne. Despite knowing that Radio contact would be disrupted by the storm, he decided to try and get a message out.

"Mayday, Mayday; this is Tango Hotel Sierra; my aircraft is damaged and my readouts are non-responsive. My engine has cut out and I am losing altitude. My last known coordinates are as follows: Latitude, 52.915398; Longitude, -1.657476." As he expected, there was no reply.

He realised he had only one option: he had to land. While he knew his parachute would still function, he did not want to take the chance of bailing out into a storm, with no idea of height. However, with no visibility, no altitude read out and no engine power, landing the plane was equally suicidal.

"I am going to attempt to make an emergency landing. I repeat; my last none coordinates are as follows: Latitude, 52.915398; Longitude, -1.657476; Tango Hotel Sierra; over and out." He finished with a sigh.

As he made preparations to land, the sky around him suddenly lit up with a blindingly bright light, the clouds vanishing in an instant, and the air became still. Squinting to shield his eyes, he swallowed slightly in fear. This was far beyond anything he had seen.

As his mind rushed to attribute a logical explanation to this situation, his plane was suddenly tossed around by extreme turbulence. For some reason, despite the engine having failed several minutes before, the aircraft began to speed up. He was pushed back into his seat by the sheer force.

After thirty seconds of acceleration, the white light vanished, revealing the storm clouds, the plane slowed its acceleration and began to free fall. As he fell, he could feel the nose of the plane dip forwards as it began to dive. As the wind rushed past the cockpit, he pulled frantically on the controls, trying to slow his descent.

But, as if by some divine will, the engine burst into life and the prop began to turn once more. His eyes widened and he laughed in triumph, pulling on the joystick for all he was worth. The plane slowed its descent but was still careering downwards.

As he slowly regained control of his aircraft, he noticed a break in the clouds. With a relieved sigh, he directed the plane through the gap and out. Just as he left the black clouds, he noticed something directly ahead of the plane…a large, grey tower.

With a gasp, he veered to the left, attempting to avoid the structure but was too late to stop the tip of his wing being torn off as he clipped the tower. Spiralling downward, he gave one last frantic pull on the stick before bracing himself for the impact.

The anticipated jolt tore through him, the cockpit filled with metallic screeching as the fuselage rubbed against the ground. The plane slid for a moment before stopping abruptly. Sparks scrunched his eyes up in pain, feeling the whiplash from his violent stop.

Blinking slightly in shock, he glanced around the cockpit. The readouts were now completely dead. Some of them read nothing, while a few spat sparks occasionally. Outside, he could see the tell-tale glow of fire, telling him his plane was burning. As the cockpit began to slowly fill with smoke, he felt something wet drip from his hair. Feeling his head softly, he brought his hand in front of his eyes, and saw it was covered in blood.

With a groan, he tried to undo the catch on his harness, which came away with a click. The glass in the roof of the plane was fogged up, the smoke steadily filling the compartment, allowing only blurred images. Feeling for the roof release, he gave it a violent yank before it came loose, throwing the roof off the fuselage.

As the smoke vented, he coughed painfully, his throat burning from inhaling the fumes, Sparks tried to pull himself out of the fuselage, resting his hand on the edge of the cockpit. However, he was too weak to lever himself up. As he frantically tried to extricate himself, he heard voices and footsteps heading towards him. He fell back into his seat and breathed heavily with the exertion.

'Thank God someone saw the crash.' He sighed in relief.

In a moment, he was surrounded by people, all trying to get him out of the cockpit. They were all talking to each other, discussing how to get him out, but with his hazy mind, he could not understand what they were saying. After a few minutes, the people had cleared the various straps and debris holding him in place.

For a moment, he thought he felt himself being lifted by nothing, feeling total weightlessness. Once he felt the familiar feel of the ground beneath himself, he tried to laugh in satisfaction and relief that he had made it in one piece, but it devolved into a violent hacking cough.

Blinking slightly, he glancing around at his whereabouts. They appeared to be in some sort of stone courtyard where his plane had finally crash landed. The area around them was lit up with a quiet crackle, as small flames burned pieces of debris from his plane. He was lying on a stone flagged floor, which was icy cold under his hands. The area looked extremely familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen it. He tried to push himself up, but gave up with a hiss of pain.

After a moment, he turned his attention to his saviours: several oddly dressed people, wearing what appeared to be robes of some sort. Scanning their faces for a moment, he stopped at one who looked familiar. He racked his brain, trying to think where he'd seen him before. As his mind cleared up from the shock, it hit him like a bolt of lightning.

"Albus?" He asked weakly. Before he got a response, everything began to spin and he slipped out of consciousness.

There we are! What did you think? Please read and review! I have a good idea where I'm going with this story! I hope you enjoyed it and I will endeavour to update and answer your messages as often as possible!

This is the Quill, signing off!