The Jones household, England. April 4th, 1939.

The atmosphere in the dining room was mainly celebratory but an air of sadness lingered around the table. Kimona, her mother and father and two sisters took up five of the six seats around the table, a feast arranged down the middle with the plates full.

“A toast, to dear Kimona,” her Dad declared, raising his glass. Looking across at her he continued, “Becoming a pilot myself filled me with such pride, but that has been rightly trumped by the pride that fills me seeing you take to the skies and achieve what you have,” he paused to compose himself and placed his hand on his wife’s before finishing. “To take on this challenge impresses your mother and I beyond belief. Cheers!”

The family raised their glasses- wine that the parents were drinking and a soft sparkling apple alternative for Kimona and her sisters. Kimona pushed her chair back and went over to her parents, draping each arm around them, pulling them in for a hug.

Remaining behind them, she had something she wanted to say to them. “Mum, Dad, I love you both so much. And it’s because of that love that I can take the risk to try and break this record!” Kimona allowed her mum to get up, and braced her for a hug.

“We are so proud of you. I just wish you were taking a co-pilot. It’s such a long way by yourself.”

“Mum, I need to do it without a co-pilot. That’s what a solo is. That’s how I earn the record,” countered Kimona, placing her hands on her mother’s face.

“Sweetie, Kimona is more than ready. She is prepared. What happened to Amelia Earheart was just awful luck. But Kimona can do this, like many others before her,” Kimona’s father assured.

Raising a glass to drink from, Kimona teased her mum with an exaggerated shrug, “besides, even if I did crash, having a co-pilot won’t help me- it’d just be another thing to worry about!”

“Hmm, thanks. Very reassuring, Kimona Jones!”

***

In a TV studio somewhere in Florida. 2029.

“And we’re live in three... two ... one,” The titles were cued and papers rustled. For effect. Hank was all about effect. There was nothing even written on the papers.

“Good morning and welcome back. It’s seven fifteen a.m. on March 19th, 2029 here in sunny, warm Florida. We have some breaking news if you’re just waking up,” and with that, he turned dramatically to his co-anchor.

“That’s right Hank. We are getting unconfirmed reports suggesting that the entire crew of the USS Birmingham have vanished. We are waiting for more on this, but it’s concerning all the same,” Monica, the co-anchor explained, pushing her hair back behind her ear.

Hank, who had turned to face Monica, turned back to the camera. “Indeed, Monica. This news comes as a spate of missing person reports have recently increased in the area and our nearby neighbours in the Caribbean, but a whole military boat crew?” Hank leaned back in his chair and scratched his head as if taking personal responsibility for solving it. “But before that,” he leaned forward and turned to a different camera, “a special report from the Everglades about a study into the communication between mating crocodiles. I think I must be married to a crocodile- all she does is snap at me!” he exaggeratedly clapped his hands in joy at his own lame joke, checking to see Monica’s reaction.

The camera crew comedically groaned. She sighed, burying her head in her hands but did manage a chuckle. For effect. Monica was a fan of effect too. It’s what won them their two awards and endeared them to their community.

“Yeah, I love you too sweetie,” she said, pretending to hit him with her script. Turning back to the camera like the pro she was, she announced, “Our special report comes from Mandy Walters.”

***

The USS Birmingham was anchored off the coast of Florida with a plethora of military and coastguard activity, both on sea and in the air. The sight could be seen from land, where news crews were setting camp on the beaches.

Some distance away, on a quieter stretch of beach, the torn and shredded remains of a life boat washed with the gentle tide.

***

The next day at the airfield, there was a buzz in the air. Outside of the hangar, a platform had been erected and a banner hung across the top of the structure, reading GOOD LUCK KIMONA. A crowd of a hundred or so milled about, groups scattered about eagerly waiting. Moments later, Kimona came out of the hanger and strode up to the stand that was placed front centre of the platform. The crowd hushed and left their groups to shuffle forward. Press photographers bustled to the front, where the Jones family were already stood. Tapping the microphone gingerly, slightly self-aware and out of her comfort zone, she began.

“Growing up, I have been inspired by my father and by the female pioneers before me, breaking new ground. Or rather new skies, and achieving the impossible. And so it is today, that I will fly from England to Nassau, nonstop and BY MYSELF!” The crowd cheered, and her father gave her a thumbs up. Kimona continued, “Thanks to the greats before me, Amelia Earheart for flying for fifteen hours nonstop from the US to here. To Beryl Markham who was the first to fly nonstop across the Atlantic. And Amy Johnson who flew solo to Australia. Ladies, I see you and I thank you. You have paved the way for me to be able to take my turn. And finally, to my parents, who I love dearly. Thank you very much for your love and support.” There was applause as Kimona paused for some photographs before climbing down to join her family in an embrace. A photographer asked for a photograph, to which they obliged.

As the flash flashed, Kimona’s mother said, “We love you Kimona Jones.”

The navy blue de Havilland Puss Moth taxied along the runway shortly after, with Kimona in the cockpit. Gaining altitude, and with a flutter of butterflies in her tummy, Kimona glanced down below and saw the colony of ants that were the crowd who saw her off. This is it, then! Let’s do this! She thought to herself, realising that the record for a nonstop solo flight from the UK to the Caribbean was now within reach. She slipped the headset off her head to around her neck, flicked a switch and settled back. Home, now miles away.

***

On the once quiet stretch of beach, tape was strung up to keep the baying crowds away from the remains of the life craft that washed up. Word got around fast and it hadn’t been long before the first news crews arrived, drawing in a crowd of tourists and residents. The FBI and NCIS didn’t hang around before attempting to recover the wreck.

***

Somewhere near America, over the Atlantic Ocean, Kimona was nearing the end of her flight. For the umpteenth time, she glanced at the photograph stuck to the control panel in the cockpit. It was from a few Christmases ago, a family photo of everyone smiling. Her father, who was a former RAF pilot had overcome a lot in his life. Her mother was a seamstress whose family and herself had to go through a lot emigrating from St Kitts and Nevis decades ago. Her sisters were both pulling silly faces. She couldn’t wait to return home and bask in her achievements and new world record.

Those thoughts soon vanished however, as the plane took a sudden lurch, dropping a few dozen feet. Kimona, startled, checked the dials and displays, but nothing out of the ordinary. Not your typical turbulence, she observed. Considering herself lucky, she checked her surroundings.

Normal. Nothing too out of the ordinary. Suddenly a warning light started flashing along with an audible alarm. Then another, and another. The plane dipped left, causing Kimona to push back in her seat to brace herself. Clinging to the controls, she tried desperately to right the plane. Levelling it out, she struggled to maintain a healthy altitude. Concentrating her efforts on watching the altitude dial, she did not see the almighty storm which had suddenly appeared, spanning miles and filling the view all around her.

The crash of thunder forced her to look up and curse under her breath. There was no way of avoiding this. She wasn’t sure if it was the roaring bangs of thunder, or the strange, terrifying flashes of green and blue peeping from between the clouds that scared her more. There was nothing normal about this storm. Kimona fought back the tears as she flicked a few switches in an attempt to sooth her plane from the stress it was now under. Heavy, murderous rain smacked the plane from nowhere, causing the front to drop and the plane to fall vertically. The sound of other-worldly rain beating against humble plane drowned out the sounds of the beeping.

With all the strength she had in her, Kimona gripped at the controls, pulling until she could pull no more. A blinding flash of a greenish lightning bolt filled her field of vision, the bolt itself striking the left wing. Fire burned at the remaining stump, causing the windows to burst out. Now spiralling out of control, Kimona fumbled for her family photograph and took a last look at it.

“I love you,” she whispered softly through tears, stroking it. Kimona tucked it into the inside pocket of her aviators jacket, and sat back in resignation of what was going to happen to her. An almighty crash sounded, and after a huge jolt, everything went black.

The plane fell out of the sky, tumbling wing over wing stump, leaving a twirling trail of black smoke in its wake. Before the plane hit the waves below, the storm had already receded and calmness restored.