Mary watches intently as Sam slowly back-steps until he disappears entirely from view.
“Dear God, where is he going?” she whispers to herself.
She wonders what the hell she should do. She’s freezing. They aren’t flying nearly as high as they had been before the explosion, but the air is still so cold it’s making her numb. In a very strange way, she’s thankful for the laptop pressed against her chest since the hard, plastic device guards against the relentless wind. She knows that if she were seated in the chair closest to the hole, she would not be able to survive the attack of frigid air. Seated where she is in the outer chair, however, she’s far enough away from the windy onslaught that it is somewhat bearable but still painful.
Staring through the opening, she can see nothing but pitch darkness. She imagines they are flying so low that, if it were daylight, she’d be able to make out the whitecaps on the ocean surface. Her mind is spinning with fear, spinning with so many thoughts and emotions she can’t think straight. She wonders if she is going to survive the night. If she’s going to live long enough to see the new day. To see Rome.
She hopes and prays Sam will do something. Do something quick before this madman decides to blow up the plane and kill every innocent soul inside it.
She closes her eyes, and for the first time in a long time, prays to Jesus Christ.
Sam Savage makes his way as fast as he can to the cockpit. He doesn’t stop to answer the questions being shot at him from the anxious, scared-to-death passengers. Right now, he needs a quick come-to-Jesus with the pilots. He needs a plan of action. Needs to do it as quickly as possible.
When he comes to the cockpit door, he encounters one of the first-class flight attendants. She’s a very attractive African American woman and one of Sam’s good friends, and occasional friend with benefits.
“We’re going to die, aren’t we, Sam?” she says.
“No, we’re not, Ashley,” he says. “We’re going to find a way to neutralize this son of a bitch and do it quickly.” He places both his hands on her trembling shoulders. “I need you to be strong for me. For every soul on board. And I also need the new code that gets me into the cockpit. Can you do that for me?”
Ashley wipes both her big brown eyes with the backs of her hands, forces a smile. She gives him the code.
“The Captain will want to know you’re aboard,” she says. Then, shaking her head, “I’m not gonna lie to you, Sam. They’re having a tough time keeping us airborne.”
“Smile anyway,” he says. “You can do it.”
Ashley works up a smile.
“That’s my girl,” Sam says.
He turns, faces the wall-mounted keypad, and punches in the five-digit cockpit code. The door unbolts, and he steps inside. Closing the door behind him, he enters the cramped cockpit of the Airbus A330.
“Have we got a problem, Houston, or what?” he says.
What he witnesses takes his breath away. Just like Ashley said, both pilots are indeed struggling to keep the aircraft airborne. Under normal circumstances, pilots don’t fly much at all once the plane is in the sky. The computers, in association with GPS-guided autopilot systems and TRACON, do all the real flying. The pilot and copilot are there to oversee the operation.
This is different. The pilots are gripping the sticks with both their hands as if the autopilot has been knocked out entirely. Their knuckles are white, their arms are trembling under their thin, white, short-sleeved uniform shirts. An alarm is sounding, the volume not ear-piercing, but its repetitive electronic warning is enough to grab Sam’s attention. The Captain, a thin, late-to-middle-aged man, is speaking non-stop into his headset.
“Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo Flight AB1989 from New York requesting an emergency landing at Heathrow,” he chants. “Repeat. Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo Flight AB1989 from New York en route to Rome now requesting an emergency landing at Heathrow. Over.”
“Please repeat the nature of your emergency,” the tinny, English-accented voice comes back over the radio. “Over.”
The Captain shakes his head, frustratingly.
“To repeat,” he spits, “we’ve had a fluid in-flight terroristic emergency. We have had one confirmed explosive detonation. The detonation has caused significant fuselage damage, and now hydraulics are affected enough that we’re having trouble keeping her level. Autopilot is gone completely. A man has strapped a bomb hidden inside a laptop computer to a woman’s chest and is threating to detonate that one too unless we fly the aircraft to Yemen. A flight to Yemen is impossible. The fear now is that unless said terrorist is neutralized, we will lose the entire flight of two-hundred-eight souls including crew. Am I clear? Over.”
“AB1989 have you checked in with Dublin? Over.”
“Affirmative on that, Heathrow. They cannot accommodate us. I repeat, they cannot accommodate. Same goes for Manchester. You’re next in line, Heathrow. Over.”
“Roger that, Bravo AB1989, we are presently clearing you for an emergency landing at Heathrow. You will also be intercepted by a British Airforce greeting party. Stand by for glide path and landing instructions. Over.”
“You keep those damn military jets far enough away so that the terrorist doesn’t get nervous and blow us out of the sky. Over.”
“We hear you, Captain. Over.”
“Fuck,” the Captain barks.
The stunned, far younger, black-haired co-pilot just stares at his flight superior. His eyes are so glassy, it almost looks like he’s about to cry.
“Jeeze, don’t say fuck into a live mic, Dave,” Co-Pilot says.
“We’re gonna fucking die soon, Brenden,” Captain Dave says. “I’ll say what I want, when I want, how I want.” Then, over his shoulder. “What the fuck are you doing here, Sam? You’re not even listed on the manifest as sky marshal today.”
“Thanks for the greeting.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Sam,” Captain Dave says. “I’m glad as hell you’re here.”
“I’m dead heading to Rome,” Sam adds. “Now, it looks like England. But what the fuck, that’s why they call it an adventure.”
“Very funny,” Captain Dave says. “We’re still at least an hour out from Heathrow, and that’s if we can manage to keep this hunk of tin and bolts flying.”
“I think we’re gonna have to ditch,” Brendan interjects, his voice trembling while he struggles with the stick. “We don’t ditch, this fucking Airbus is gonna disintegrate all around us, gentlemen. I’m guessing that explosion cracked the fuselage like an eggshell.”
Sam swallows something cold, dry, and bitter. He wonders if the terrorist who detonated the laptop bomb—and was subsequently sucked out the opening—intended to do so, or if the explosion was a big mistake.
“What are your orders, Dave?” he says. “I get the feeling I’m the only sky marshal aboard.”
“That you are,” Dave confirms. “Bravo didn’t feel we needed to incur the expense for a flight filled with honeymooners to Rome. Tell you what, you manage to figure out a way to put down that terrorist motherfucker, I’ll personally put you in for a citation at the Transportation Security Administration and a big ass raise. You’ll never have to guard a Trailways bus or an Amtrak train again. But here’s the thing. You gotta do it without getting anybody killed, including us.”
“We’re gonna end up ditching anyway,” Brendan interjects. “Mark my word.”
“Stop saying that shit, will you?” Captain Dave says. “We’re not gonna ditch, already.”
“Maybe I can talk him down,” Sam says, picturing the bomb duct-taped to a terrified Mary. A woman he had sex with only moments ago.
“You ain’t got time for that,” Brendan says.
“You must have trained for this scenario, right?” Captain Dave says. His arms are shaking so badly, Sam fears they might fall off.
“Sure they train us,” Sam says. “But who actually believes they’re ever going to need the training?”
“Sam,” Dave says. “Save this plane. That’s an order.”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” Sam says. “I’m on it.”
Opening the cockpit door, Sam Savage steps back out into the first-class cabin. He needs a plan of action. He needs it now.