It was the crown jewel of aircrafts from the moment it lifted off in 1976 until its sudden, catastrophic extinction 27 years later. The Concorde.
On the outside: a supersonic, transatlantic rocket ship with four Rolls-Royce engines cruising along the outermost layer of the earth’s atmosphere at Mach 2. On the inside: the last of the 1960s’ international jetsetters and the wealthiest of the 1980s’ Wall Street tycoons sipping champagne and moving twice as fast as everyone else in the world. “You can be in London at 10am and in New York at 10am,” said Sir David Frost, a Concorde regular. “I have never found another way of being in two places at once.”
And then, like Keyser Söze, poof: it was gone.