Light like a great pink chrysanthemum bloomed far away over the distant perimeter, hanging high in the quiet air. Others would describe it as a fireball and speak of the deep booming roar as the fuel tanks, full to capacity at the start of the plane’s long run, exploded. But no sound reached inside the little office, double-glazed and already ten miles away, and Flynn’s abiding impression was of a great flower blossoming halfway down the sky. 

After long shocked moments Inspector Harris found a voice, and to his great credit it was a voice without hysteria saying something sensible. “John, you were watching—was that an aircraft?” 

The sergeant nodded slowly. The shock that had wiped the expression off his face seemed also to have kicked him temporarily into slow-motion. “An aircraft. An aircraft.” At last and with an effort he dragged appalled eyes away from the fading pink light and they found Flynn. “The one we pulled him off.”