Carlton-Melbourne International Airport, Melbourne County, Norfolk, Brettaine
Clouds blanketed the sky as the waning daylight grew ever dimmer over the city of Melbourne. At Carlton-Melbourne International Airport, the polished white fuselage of a Brettish Airways Bowen 747 jetliner pulls into the jetway, having just touched down from Winchester in Anglyn. It's Brettish passengers, happy to be home, disembark the airliner as two-hundred and forty-three passengers wait in the terminal for the next flight to Villesen, Sereniérre.
Captain James Taylor and First Officer Jean-Paul Marien relieve the crew of the earlier flight to take command of Brettish Airways Flight 239 bound for Villesen. The two men are decorated veterans of the airline, with a combined forty-two years of flight experience between the two men. They are expecting a routine four-and-a-half hour red eye flight to Villesen, expected to arrive at a quarter past eleven in the evening, local time. As they enter the cockpit, they promptly begin their flight checklist while the ground crew refuels the large airliner and begins loading baggage for the next flight.
At the gate, nine flight attendants arrive and flash their Brettish Airways employee ID cards at the boarding agent. The boarding agent is unfamiliar with their faces, although in the airline business it is not uncommon to see new faces on a daily basis. The head air hostess is a tall red-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a foreign accent. Brettish Airways has no security protocols for the flight crew, as Parliament and the Royal Aviation Commission have made no firm regulations about flight crews. Unlike passengers who are thoroughly screened for firearms, explosives, and other weapons, flight crews simply pass through a locked door at the ticketing counter, bypassing security to head straight for their flight. The airline had lobbied heavily in Parliament to keep this standard in place, and since there had never actually been any incidents in Brettish Airways' seventy-five year history of passenger service, there seemed no need for change. The boarding agent simply waves them through after checking their ID cards, and they walk down the jetway and onto the plane.
Amongst the passengers milling about the terminal is fifteen-year-old Paul Reynolds, a St. Kilda resident who is off to Sereniérre for a summer trip. Most of the passengers on this evening's flight are Sereniérrese nationals returning home from spring vacations or business on the Brettish peninsula, and Bretons headed to the northern Boreas nation for business or holiday. Many passengers are excited for the Flower Festival in Villesen, an event of national pride to the Sereniérrese. The passengers wait patiently for the boarding process to begin. Several of them gather around the tall plate-glass windows that overlook the tarmac, watching the ground crew or observing the giant jumbo jet as it prepares for the flight.
The airliner's name is displayed prominently on the nose of the aircraft: "Clipper Orion." The name of the airline is painted in large blue letters across the fuselage, and the tail is painted to look like the Brettish flag in flight. It is the pride of the Brettish national airline; after only ten months in service, it is the newest Bowen 747 in the fleet.
As the passengers mill about, a member of the ground crew, wearing an orange jump suit, emerges from the jetway and starts speaking quietly to the boarding agent. She nods her head and picks up the telephone.
"Attention passengers waiting to board Flight 239 bound for Villesen: we regret to inform you that there will be a slight delay in boarding. The ground crew is experiencing a problem with a piece of equipment and we are expecting about an extra twenty-five minute delay before we can begin the boarding process. We apologize for the inconvenience."
A rousing groan in unison erupts from the crowd of passengers, but many of them simply go back to waiting. An air compressor used to check and reinflate the tires on the aircraft has broken down, and the flight crew has to procure another one from an equipment hangar on the other side of the airport. The passengers go back to reading the French edition of The Melbourne Times, Brettaine Today, or the Sereniérrese papers they picked up at the newsstand. Since this flight is destined for a Francophone nation, most of the passengers are native French speakers.
On the plane, the pilots are going through their checklist. "Let's light up the Christmas Tree," said First-Officer Marien, flipping a switch on the control panel in the cockpit. Every warning indicator in the plane instantly illuminated, and the two men began searching for any burned out bulbs.
"Looks good to me," said Captain Taylor. "I’m having them fuel enough to get to Villesen. Management recommended we refill there since fuel costs are cheaper.”
“Very well,” said Marien with his thick French-Berengarian accent.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, at this time we would like to begin the boarding process. We ask that all passengers with small children and those requiring special assistance please step to the terminal so we may seat you," said the ticketing agent. As the minutes passed, more groups were called to board the flight. First class passengers, business class passengers, coach passengers, and finally open seating. Paul Reynolds was one of the last ones to board the plane, having an open seating ticket in economy class.
"Take whatever seat is left," said the ticketing agent, handing Paul back his ticket stub. "Have a nice flight."
"Thank you," said Paul, running down the jetway, with a camera bag slung over his shoulders and his headphones around his neck. He was excited to finally be on his way to Sereniérre to visit his old friend, a diplomat's son at the Brettish embassy there in Villesen. The plane was packed as he made his way down the seemingly endless corridor, packed with passengers. He took a seat at the very last row in economy class, near the window. Since nobody else wanted to sit in the rear, Paul basically had both seats in the row to himself. He put his headphones over his ears and started to listen to music on his iPod.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we would like to welcome you aboard Brettish Airways Flight 239 with service to Villesen, Sereniérre. We ask at this time that you please power down all electronic devices ………….." The boy in seat 62K had no idea what the air host was saying until a woman tapped him on the shoulder.
"You must put your music device away," said the air hostess with an odd accent. Paul obliged without a word and started reading the magazine in the seat pocket.
In First Class, Andrew Pettyfer of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was overlooking papers for his upcoming diplomatic mission in Villesen. Given the government's recent decision to recognize the Aresuran Reformists as the de jure authority of Brettaine's neighboring land, Pettyfer's mission to Sereniérre meant not only strengthening diplomatic ties between Villesen and Kronstadt, but also working out covert plans for possible military intervention in Aresura. In his possession was a special stainless steel briefcase with two locks: one of the keys was on Pettyfer's person and the other was with the Brettish Ambassdor in Villesen. Only with both keys could the briefcase be open to reveal its classified contents.
Aboard Brettish Airways Flight 239
With the orange sun setting below a bank of clouds to the west, Clipper Orion rolled for takeoff at 8:45 P.M. Melbourne time. Before long, they reached cruising altitude. Paul Reynolds put his headphones back over his ears and zoned out while the flight attendants began tea and coffee service for the passengers.
"Sir, would you like something off the tea menu?" asked an air host to Mr. Pettyfer.
"A cup of Earl Grey, please," said the diplomat as he went back to reading his papers. The air host set a cup on the tray table beside him and poured him a cup of tea.
A young Sereniérrese couple sitting in front of Pettyfer were chatting in French about the ongoing Flower Festival in Villesen as they settled in for the four-hour flight home. When the air host arrived to take their order, he spoke broken and awkward French.
"That's odd," thought Pettyfer as he sipped his cup of tea. Brettish flight attendants were required to be bilingual, and most of them spoke French well enough to at least use correct syntax. “Maybe he’s new,” thought Pettyfer before going back to his reading.
Thirty minutes after the tea service went around the plane, many of the passengers had fallen asleep. Pettyfer, trying his hardest to stay alert and focused, finally slumped over in his seat, his papers falling out of his hands and onto the floor. The twelve other passengers in First Class reclined their seat backs, stricken with a sudden bout of weariness. Twenty-eight of the thirty-two Business Class passengers were slumped over as the air host quietly walked through the cabin, trying to offer the four other passengers some snacks to nibble on. In Economy, most of the 198 passengers had their heads against the back of their seat, sleeping soundly. Only about thirty or so remained awake, seemingly oblivious to the sudden contagion of inertia that swept through the cabin. As the faint glow of dusk settled to the darkness of night outside their windows, the passengers turned on their reading lights above their heads and sunk themselves in a good read.
At the rear of the cabin, Paul Reynolds had been listening to his iPod and staring out the window at the city lights below. After a while, he began to notice that the cabin grew oddly silent, and turned down the volume on his iPod to listen. He peeked above the seats and saw that only about thirty or so people in the cabin were still awake, with nearly 100 or so fast asleep. He glanced at his watch: it was half past nine, far too early, he thought, for so many people to be snoozing.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink?” asked the air hostess from behind. Paul recognized her as the one who told him to put his iPod away at the beginning of the flight. He replied to the inquiry by simply shaking his head no.
The air hostess seemed to scowl at his answer. “Are you sure? We have some delicious cookies,” she said, handing him a small cookie wrapped in saran wrap.
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” Paul said. The air hostess glared at him for a moment, before tossing the cookie back on the tray. She stormed angrily up the aisle, before coming across another passenger 5 rows ahead and asking him if he wanted a snack.
“That was odd, I've never seen such a pushy air hostess before,” thought Paul. He watched her as she continued to march up the aisle, before turning around and coming back down the aisle. Troublesome as she was, Paul hoped to avoid her for at least a little while by sneaking into the lavatory behind his row of seats. At least there he wouldn't have to deal with her constant interruptions and brusque orders.
Clipper Orion, Flight 239, was now flying over the province of Essex at nearly 500 knots. Captain Taylor and First Officer Marien had been chatting with the air traffic controller in Adelaide for about five minutes, obtaining information about the weather patterns that lay ahead and incoming traffic into Adelaide-Essex International. With auto pilot engaged, the two pilots themselves settled in until the time came to start their descent.
A knock came at the cockpit door, and Taylor gave permission to enter. The red haired flight attendant entered. Her name tag said "Laurie," pinned right above the silver wings with the BA logo.
"Captain," she said. "Some of the passengers are starting to feel ill. I think they may need to see a doctor," said Laurie.
"I'll put in a request to Geneva control for an emergency landing," said the Captain. As he reached for his radio, Laurie took out a tranquilizer gun and shot the pilot in the neck. Before Marien could react, a male flight attendant stepped up from behind and tranquilized him too. The two pilots fell unconscious almost immediately.
"Take control, I'll get Anton up here," said "Laurie" to her associate. She took off her hat and tossed it aside as she walked out into the First Class lounge. All of the passengers were fast asleep.
"Colonel," said another flight attendant to the woman. "There are still about thirty passengers in economy who aren't down."
"Deal with it," she said, tossing her gun at him. "Get the ammunition from below. I want to be well prepared when we land. And get all of these passengers back to their seats. The upper deck will be our staging area. Keep all the hostages on the lower deck. Close all of the window screens as well and dim the cabin lights, to keep the plane as dark as possible."
Geneva Air Traffic Control, Geneva Intl. Airport, Kenamond, Brettaine
In Geneva, Luke Nelson is settling in for a routine night as an air traffic controller. He notices the little green dot on his radar screen for BA-239 deviating slightly from the flight track. Thinking there could be a minor glitch in the navigation computer, he tries to contact the aircraft.
"Clipper Two-Three-Niner Heavy, Geneva Control," he says.
There is silence.
"Clipper Two-Three-Niner Heavy, Geneva Control, please reply upon receipt of this transmission," he says again.
Again, there is silence.
The flight seems to be proceeding normally over Lake Constance. The flight level is normal, and there doesn't seem to be any cause for alarm. But the aircraft's silence bugs Nelson. He tries to squawk on different frequencies, but there is no reply.
He then notices the flight information disappear, left only by a green dot. The dot makes a sharp turn to the east over Lake Constance, heading east-northeast towards the Aresuran border. He watches for a couple of minutes before deciding to contact another plane in the vicinity for a visual identification.
“Clipper One-Seven-Niner-Two Heavy, Geneva control,” he says to a nearby flight bound for Kronstadt.
“Roger Geneva control, Clipper One-Seven-Niner-Two Heavy, go ahead,” comes a reply.
“There’s an aircraft to the northwest of you at flight level 109. Their transponder has gone off and we need a visual identification,” said the air traffic controller.
The pilot peered into the blackness of the night, seeing only a green wing light and a white tail light in the distance.
“Geneva Control, uhh, the aircraft looks to be military. There are no cabin lights along the fuselage, only marker lights,” said the pilot in response.
It’s at this point that air traffic controller Nelson realizes something is going wrong in the skies above Kenamond Province.
Aboard Flight 239
Noticing something wrong as the plane turned hard to the right, Paul Reynolds poked his head out of the lavatory door to investigate. As he does, he notices the air hostess from earlier, only this time carrying a silver gun. She slowly and stealthily moves up, tranquilizing the still-conscious passengers with one quick injection in the neck. Paul's eyes widen as he realizes something very bad is happening. He quickly closes and locks the lavatory door and pulls out his cellular phone. There is one bar on his antenna: not strong, but a signal nonetheless.
"Pound-Zero-Zero-Zero," he said as he dialed the number. To his delight, he heard the phone begin to ring.
"Emergency Switchboard, Kent. Fire, Police, or Medical?" asked a woman on the other line.
"I'm on an airplane," Paul whispered into the phone. "The flight attendants are putting the passengers to sleep."
"Excuse me, this is an emergency line. If this is not an emergency then I will have to report your telephone number," said the operator, thinking the call was a prank.
"This is an emergency. Some people are taking over the plane. They put everybody to sleep. They're dressed up as flight attendants."
"Listen kid, this is not the proper…"
"Listen, I'm not making this stuff up. I'm on Brettish Airways Flight 239 and I'm telling you they're trying to take over the plane or something. You have to call the Air Force or somebody to help us!"
Meanwhile, "Laurie" and "Spencer," two of the hijackers, meet at the spiral staircase near the front of the plane. "Spencer" has just conducted a head count and collected the passports from over one hundred passengers. "Laurie," meanwhile, continues to orchestrate the operation with precision. Unlike the other members of her entourage, who appeared to be Aresuran terrorists, "Laurie" was a former special-ops officer from a foreign nation turned mercenary.
"How many do you count?" asked "Laurie."
"Two-hundred forty-two," said "Spencer."
"There are supposed to be 243 according to the passenger list. Go do a recount, quickly," she said, pushing the terrorist towards the other side of the plane. With haste, she marches down the starboard aisle in Economy, her eyes dancing across the seats where the passengers sat, unconscious. When she reached the rear lavatories, she noticed that the door was cracked open, and that the blonde boy with the iPod in seat 62K was mysteriously absent. Drawing her tranquilizer gun, she quietly put her hand on the door. Then, with a mightly thrust, she threw the door open. An empty lavatory is all that waits on the other side.
"Damn," she says as Spencer runs up behind her. "There is a boy missing. Find him, now!" she demands, pushing Spencer out of the doorway. As he runs up the aisle, she stops at the rear of the plane and looks around. If the boy ran from the lavatory, he may have dropped something on the way. Her eyes scan the floor, looking for some little piece of a trail he may have left.
As Spencer runs up the aisle looking for Paul, Laurie notices a tiny piece of red vinyl on the floor. It is caught on the edge of a hatch that leads down to the cargo hold. With the instinct of a hunter, Laurie grabs a flashlight and opens the hatch. It is pitch dark in the hatch, as the only light switch for the cargo room is in the cockpit. Yet among the din of airplane noise in the chilly compartment, she hears footsteps running through the darkness, towards the front of the plane. Shining her flashlight around, she sees nothing but aluminium girders and luggage carriers. The footsteps stop as Laurie starts walking down the catwalk towards the fuel tank. Approaching the end of the line, she notices a dim glow under a tarp between two luggage containers. Laurie tears the tarp off, only to be pushed to the metal floor by whoever or whatever was under there. Paul darted through the darkness towards the hatch, hoping to trap the hijacker in the cargo hold. In the blinding darkness, however, he fails to see the two-metre tall Spencer blocking his way. Like a bear, Spencer grabs Paul and picks him off the ground. The boy kicks at Spencer's shins, screaming to let him go, to which Spencer replies with a swift head butt. Paul falls to the keel of the plane, knocked out cold. His cellular phone, still connected to the Emergency Switchboard, flies out of his hand and slides across the floor.
"Bring him up to the Lounge. He will be our little guest of honor on this flight," said Laurie. Spencer slung the unconscious boy over his shoulder, as Laurie picked up the cell phone and listened to the Emergency Operator on the other line. Upset, she simply disconnected the battery and tossed the phone to the floor.
"Grab the bags," said Laurie. The two of them carried Paul and two large black bags up to the lower passenger deck. Inside the bags were enough guns and explosives to arm nine hijackers for a full out firefight.
The passengers of Flight 239 would be in for a rude awakening by sunrise.
Clouds blanketed the sky as the waning daylight grew ever dimmer over the city of Melbourne. At Carlton-Melbourne International Airport, the polished white fuselage of a Brettish Airways Bowen 747 jetliner pulls into the jetway, having just touched down from Winchester in Anglyn. It's Brettish passengers, happy to be home, disembark the airliner as two-hundred and forty-three passengers wait in the terminal for the next flight to Villesen, Sereniérre.
Captain James Taylor and First Officer Jean-Paul Marien relieve the crew of the earlier flight to take command of Brettish Airways Flight 239 bound for Villesen. The two men are decorated veterans of the airline, with a combined forty-two years of flight experience between the two men. They are expecting a routine four-and-a-half hour red eye flight to Villesen, expected to arrive at a quarter past eleven in the evening, local time. As they enter the cockpit, they promptly begin their flight checklist while the ground crew refuels the large airliner and begins loading baggage for the next flight.
At the gate, nine flight attendants arrive and flash their Brettish Airways employee ID cards at the boarding agent. The boarding agent is unfamiliar with their faces, although in the airline business it is not uncommon to see new faces on a daily basis. The head air hostess is a tall red-haired woman with bright blue eyes and a foreign accent. Brettish Airways has no security protocols for the flight crew, as Parliament and the Royal Aviation Commission have made no firm regulations about flight crews. Unlike passengers who are thoroughly screened for firearms, explosives, and other weapons, flight crews simply pass through a locked door at the ticketing counter, bypassing security to head straight for their flight. The airline had lobbied heavily in Parliament to keep this standard in place, and since there had never actually been any incidents in Brettish Airways' seventy-five year history of passenger service, there seemed no need for change. The boarding agent simply waves them through after checking their ID cards, and they walk down the jetway and onto the plane.
Amongst the passengers milling about the terminal is fifteen-year-old Paul Reynolds, a St. Kilda resident who is off to Sereniérre for a summer trip. Most of the passengers on this evening's flight are Sereniérrese nationals returning home from spring vacations or business on the Brettish peninsula, and Bretons headed to the northern Boreas nation for business or holiday. Many passengers are excited for the Flower Festival in Villesen, an event of national pride to the Sereniérrese. The passengers wait patiently for the boarding process to begin. Several of them gather around the tall plate-glass windows that overlook the tarmac, watching the ground crew or observing the giant jumbo jet as it prepares for the flight.
The airliner's name is displayed prominently on the nose of the aircraft: "Clipper Orion." The name of the airline is painted in large blue letters across the fuselage, and the tail is painted to look like the Brettish flag in flight. It is the pride of the Brettish national airline; after only ten months in service, it is the newest Bowen 747 in the fleet.
As the passengers mill about, a member of the ground crew, wearing an orange jump suit, emerges from the jetway and starts speaking quietly to the boarding agent. She nods her head and picks up the telephone.
"Attention passengers waiting to board Flight 239 bound for Villesen: we regret to inform you that there will be a slight delay in boarding. The ground crew is experiencing a problem with a piece of equipment and we are expecting about an extra twenty-five minute delay before we can begin the boarding process. We apologize for the inconvenience."
A rousing groan in unison erupts from the crowd of passengers, but many of them simply go back to waiting. An air compressor used to check and reinflate the tires on the aircraft has broken down, and the flight crew has to procure another one from an equipment hangar on the other side of the airport. The passengers go back to reading the French edition of The Melbourne Times, Brettaine Today, or the Sereniérrese papers they picked up at the newsstand. Since this flight is destined for a Francophone nation, most of the passengers are native French speakers.
On the plane, the pilots are going through their checklist. "Let's light up the Christmas Tree," said First-Officer Marien, flipping a switch on the control panel in the cockpit. Every warning indicator in the plane instantly illuminated, and the two men began searching for any burned out bulbs.
"Looks good to me," said Captain Taylor. "I’m having them fuel enough to get to Villesen. Management recommended we refill there since fuel costs are cheaper.”
“Very well,” said Marien with his thick French-Berengarian accent.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, at this time we would like to begin the boarding process. We ask that all passengers with small children and those requiring special assistance please step to the terminal so we may seat you," said the ticketing agent. As the minutes passed, more groups were called to board the flight. First class passengers, business class passengers, coach passengers, and finally open seating. Paul Reynolds was one of the last ones to board the plane, having an open seating ticket in economy class.
"Take whatever seat is left," said the ticketing agent, handing Paul back his ticket stub. "Have a nice flight."
"Thank you," said Paul, running down the jetway, with a camera bag slung over his shoulders and his headphones around his neck. He was excited to finally be on his way to Sereniérre to visit his old friend, a diplomat's son at the Brettish embassy there in Villesen. The plane was packed as he made his way down the seemingly endless corridor, packed with passengers. He took a seat at the very last row in economy class, near the window. Since nobody else wanted to sit in the rear, Paul basically had both seats in the row to himself. He put his headphones over his ears and started to listen to music on his iPod.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we would like to welcome you aboard Brettish Airways Flight 239 with service to Villesen, Sereniérre. We ask at this time that you please power down all electronic devices ………….." The boy in seat 62K had no idea what the air host was saying until a woman tapped him on the shoulder.
"You must put your music device away," said the air hostess with an odd accent. Paul obliged without a word and started reading the magazine in the seat pocket.
In First Class, Andrew Pettyfer of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was overlooking papers for his upcoming diplomatic mission in Villesen. Given the government's recent decision to recognize the Aresuran Reformists as the de jure authority of Brettaine's neighboring land, Pettyfer's mission to Sereniérre meant not only strengthening diplomatic ties between Villesen and Kronstadt, but also working out covert plans for possible military intervention in Aresura. In his possession was a special stainless steel briefcase with two locks: one of the keys was on Pettyfer's person and the other was with the Brettish Ambassdor in Villesen. Only with both keys could the briefcase be open to reveal its classified contents.
Aboard Brettish Airways Flight 239
With the orange sun setting below a bank of clouds to the west, Clipper Orion rolled for takeoff at 8:45 P.M. Melbourne time. Before long, they reached cruising altitude. Paul Reynolds put his headphones back over his ears and zoned out while the flight attendants began tea and coffee service for the passengers.
"Sir, would you like something off the tea menu?" asked an air host to Mr. Pettyfer.
"A cup of Earl Grey, please," said the diplomat as he went back to reading his papers. The air host set a cup on the tray table beside him and poured him a cup of tea.
A young Sereniérrese couple sitting in front of Pettyfer were chatting in French about the ongoing Flower Festival in Villesen as they settled in for the four-hour flight home. When the air host arrived to take their order, he spoke broken and awkward French.
"That's odd," thought Pettyfer as he sipped his cup of tea. Brettish flight attendants were required to be bilingual, and most of them spoke French well enough to at least use correct syntax. “Maybe he’s new,” thought Pettyfer before going back to his reading.
Thirty minutes after the tea service went around the plane, many of the passengers had fallen asleep. Pettyfer, trying his hardest to stay alert and focused, finally slumped over in his seat, his papers falling out of his hands and onto the floor. The twelve other passengers in First Class reclined their seat backs, stricken with a sudden bout of weariness. Twenty-eight of the thirty-two Business Class passengers were slumped over as the air host quietly walked through the cabin, trying to offer the four other passengers some snacks to nibble on. In Economy, most of the 198 passengers had their heads against the back of their seat, sleeping soundly. Only about thirty or so remained awake, seemingly oblivious to the sudden contagion of inertia that swept through the cabin. As the faint glow of dusk settled to the darkness of night outside their windows, the passengers turned on their reading lights above their heads and sunk themselves in a good read.
At the rear of the cabin, Paul Reynolds had been listening to his iPod and staring out the window at the city lights below. After a while, he began to notice that the cabin grew oddly silent, and turned down the volume on his iPod to listen. He peeked above the seats and saw that only about thirty or so people in the cabin were still awake, with nearly 100 or so fast asleep. He glanced at his watch: it was half past nine, far too early, he thought, for so many people to be snoozing.
“Can I get you something to eat or drink?” asked the air hostess from behind. Paul recognized her as the one who told him to put his iPod away at the beginning of the flight. He replied to the inquiry by simply shaking his head no.
The air hostess seemed to scowl at his answer. “Are you sure? We have some delicious cookies,” she said, handing him a small cookie wrapped in saran wrap.
“I’m not hungry, thanks,” Paul said. The air hostess glared at him for a moment, before tossing the cookie back on the tray. She stormed angrily up the aisle, before coming across another passenger 5 rows ahead and asking him if he wanted a snack.
“That was odd, I've never seen such a pushy air hostess before,” thought Paul. He watched her as she continued to march up the aisle, before turning around and coming back down the aisle. Troublesome as she was, Paul hoped to avoid her for at least a little while by sneaking into the lavatory behind his row of seats. At least there he wouldn't have to deal with her constant interruptions and brusque orders.
Clipper Orion, Flight 239, was now flying over the province of Essex at nearly 500 knots. Captain Taylor and First Officer Marien had been chatting with the air traffic controller in Adelaide for about five minutes, obtaining information about the weather patterns that lay ahead and incoming traffic into Adelaide-Essex International. With auto pilot engaged, the two pilots themselves settled in until the time came to start their descent.
A knock came at the cockpit door, and Taylor gave permission to enter. The red haired flight attendant entered. Her name tag said "Laurie," pinned right above the silver wings with the BA logo.
"Captain," she said. "Some of the passengers are starting to feel ill. I think they may need to see a doctor," said Laurie.
"I'll put in a request to Geneva control for an emergency landing," said the Captain. As he reached for his radio, Laurie took out a tranquilizer gun and shot the pilot in the neck. Before Marien could react, a male flight attendant stepped up from behind and tranquilized him too. The two pilots fell unconscious almost immediately.
"Take control, I'll get Anton up here," said "Laurie" to her associate. She took off her hat and tossed it aside as she walked out into the First Class lounge. All of the passengers were fast asleep.
"Colonel," said another flight attendant to the woman. "There are still about thirty passengers in economy who aren't down."
"Deal with it," she said, tossing her gun at him. "Get the ammunition from below. I want to be well prepared when we land. And get all of these passengers back to their seats. The upper deck will be our staging area. Keep all the hostages on the lower deck. Close all of the window screens as well and dim the cabin lights, to keep the plane as dark as possible."
Geneva Air Traffic Control, Geneva Intl. Airport, Kenamond, Brettaine
In Geneva, Luke Nelson is settling in for a routine night as an air traffic controller. He notices the little green dot on his radar screen for BA-239 deviating slightly from the flight track. Thinking there could be a minor glitch in the navigation computer, he tries to contact the aircraft.
"Clipper Two-Three-Niner Heavy, Geneva Control," he says.
There is silence.
"Clipper Two-Three-Niner Heavy, Geneva Control, please reply upon receipt of this transmission," he says again.
Again, there is silence.
The flight seems to be proceeding normally over Lake Constance. The flight level is normal, and there doesn't seem to be any cause for alarm. But the aircraft's silence bugs Nelson. He tries to squawk on different frequencies, but there is no reply.
He then notices the flight information disappear, left only by a green dot. The dot makes a sharp turn to the east over Lake Constance, heading east-northeast towards the Aresuran border. He watches for a couple of minutes before deciding to contact another plane in the vicinity for a visual identification.
“Clipper One-Seven-Niner-Two Heavy, Geneva control,” he says to a nearby flight bound for Kronstadt.
“Roger Geneva control, Clipper One-Seven-Niner-Two Heavy, go ahead,” comes a reply.
“There’s an aircraft to the northwest of you at flight level 109. Their transponder has gone off and we need a visual identification,” said the air traffic controller.
The pilot peered into the blackness of the night, seeing only a green wing light and a white tail light in the distance.
“Geneva Control, uhh, the aircraft looks to be military. There are no cabin lights along the fuselage, only marker lights,” said the pilot in response.
It’s at this point that air traffic controller Nelson realizes something is going wrong in the skies above Kenamond Province.
Aboard Flight 239
Noticing something wrong as the plane turned hard to the right, Paul Reynolds poked his head out of the lavatory door to investigate. As he does, he notices the air hostess from earlier, only this time carrying a silver gun. She slowly and stealthily moves up, tranquilizing the still-conscious passengers with one quick injection in the neck. Paul's eyes widen as he realizes something very bad is happening. He quickly closes and locks the lavatory door and pulls out his cellular phone. There is one bar on his antenna: not strong, but a signal nonetheless.
"Pound-Zero-Zero-Zero," he said as he dialed the number. To his delight, he heard the phone begin to ring.
"Emergency Switchboard, Kent. Fire, Police, or Medical?" asked a woman on the other line.
"I'm on an airplane," Paul whispered into the phone. "The flight attendants are putting the passengers to sleep."
"Excuse me, this is an emergency line. If this is not an emergency then I will have to report your telephone number," said the operator, thinking the call was a prank.
"This is an emergency. Some people are taking over the plane. They put everybody to sleep. They're dressed up as flight attendants."
"Listen kid, this is not the proper…"
"Listen, I'm not making this stuff up. I'm on Brettish Airways Flight 239 and I'm telling you they're trying to take over the plane or something. You have to call the Air Force or somebody to help us!"
Meanwhile, "Laurie" and "Spencer," two of the hijackers, meet at the spiral staircase near the front of the plane. "Spencer" has just conducted a head count and collected the passports from over one hundred passengers. "Laurie," meanwhile, continues to orchestrate the operation with precision. Unlike the other members of her entourage, who appeared to be Aresuran terrorists, "Laurie" was a former special-ops officer from a foreign nation turned mercenary.
"How many do you count?" asked "Laurie."
"Two-hundred forty-two," said "Spencer."
"There are supposed to be 243 according to the passenger list. Go do a recount, quickly," she said, pushing the terrorist towards the other side of the plane. With haste, she marches down the starboard aisle in Economy, her eyes dancing across the seats where the passengers sat, unconscious. When she reached the rear lavatories, she noticed that the door was cracked open, and that the blonde boy with the iPod in seat 62K was mysteriously absent. Drawing her tranquilizer gun, she quietly put her hand on the door. Then, with a mightly thrust, she threw the door open. An empty lavatory is all that waits on the other side.
"Damn," she says as Spencer runs up behind her. "There is a boy missing. Find him, now!" she demands, pushing Spencer out of the doorway. As he runs up the aisle, she stops at the rear of the plane and looks around. If the boy ran from the lavatory, he may have dropped something on the way. Her eyes scan the floor, looking for some little piece of a trail he may have left.
As Spencer runs up the aisle looking for Paul, Laurie notices a tiny piece of red vinyl on the floor. It is caught on the edge of a hatch that leads down to the cargo hold. With the instinct of a hunter, Laurie grabs a flashlight and opens the hatch. It is pitch dark in the hatch, as the only light switch for the cargo room is in the cockpit. Yet among the din of airplane noise in the chilly compartment, she hears footsteps running through the darkness, towards the front of the plane. Shining her flashlight around, she sees nothing but aluminium girders and luggage carriers. The footsteps stop as Laurie starts walking down the catwalk towards the fuel tank. Approaching the end of the line, she notices a dim glow under a tarp between two luggage containers. Laurie tears the tarp off, only to be pushed to the metal floor by whoever or whatever was under there. Paul darted through the darkness towards the hatch, hoping to trap the hijacker in the cargo hold. In the blinding darkness, however, he fails to see the two-metre tall Spencer blocking his way. Like a bear, Spencer grabs Paul and picks him off the ground. The boy kicks at Spencer's shins, screaming to let him go, to which Spencer replies with a swift head butt. Paul falls to the keel of the plane, knocked out cold. His cellular phone, still connected to the Emergency Switchboard, flies out of his hand and slides across the floor.
"Bring him up to the Lounge. He will be our little guest of honor on this flight," said Laurie. Spencer slung the unconscious boy over his shoulder, as Laurie picked up the cell phone and listened to the Emergency Operator on the other line. Upset, she simply disconnected the battery and tossed the phone to the floor.
"Grab the bags," said Laurie. The two of them carried Paul and two large black bags up to the lower passenger deck. Inside the bags were enough guns and explosives to arm nine hijackers for a full out firefight.
The passengers of Flight 239 would be in for a rude awakening by sunrise.
