1115 ZULU
A partly cloudy sky is above the ground. A cool breeze blows in this early October day. Hundreds of people sit in bleachers, some of them holding soft drinks in their hands. Their eyes are on the sky as single-pilot jets skate through the air, making typical jet noises. The jets make close passes at each other.
"Very impressive," says a man in a U.S. Navy uniform whose rank markings identify him as a vice admiral. "I remember having to fly the F-4 Phantoms.back before we switched to the Tomcats."
"So you'rwe a pilot," says a man with white hair, wearing a baseball cap and a brown jacket.
"I have this wings of gold pinned to my uniform here."
"I was in the RAF. I flew during the Falklands conflict back in '82, over twenty years ago."
Two of the planes fly in to make a close pass, right above them and the other spectators.
Suddenly, one of the planes takes a dive.
"This isn't supposed to happen," says the U.S. Navy admiral, looking at horror at the diving plane.
Then he, and the rest of the crowd, realize the plane is diving straight for them.
In a panic they all run towards the exit.
But the plane catches them just a second later.
The impact of the plane against the ground shatters the craft and ignites the kerosene fuel. A huge fireball is lit up, cremating everyone, and the shock waves carry the energy away at the speed of sound.