Parliament House, Kronstadt, Brettaine
Through the chaos of the evening, the Situation Room had its moments of silence as the Ministers came to terms with the situation at hand. Breaking through the silence, they could hear the gentle tune of hymns coming from the windows. The Prime Minister stood from his seat, walked over to the window, and pulled back the curtains. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, he could see the dim flickers of candlelight cast amongst a sea of people outside of the gate as the Brettish people held vigil for the passengers aboard Flight 239. Upon seeing this, it would be the only time the Prime Minister smiled throughout the evening.
Remus International Airport
The commandeered executive jet that carried Maj. Pickford and Lt. Samson touched down at Remus with a puff of smoke and a screech of the tires. The two men had been going over copies of the schematics that Bowen Aerospace had delivered to the Sereniérrese and Brettish intelligence operatives, familiarizing themselves with every seat, every compartment, and every bulkhead on the jumbo jet. Perhaps the most complicated task would be rescuing hostages, if any, that were kept on the upper deck. The encrypted intelligence reports from the Sereniérrese team reported terrorists up there, and the only way to access it was via the staircase from the lower deck.
The night air was cool at Remus, heavy with dew after a brief rainstorm late the previous evening. The rain had stopped by the time the Brettish team touched down, but the bright white lights that poured out on the airliner reflected on the black tarmac of the airport. A crisp breeze welcomed the two men as they disembarked the jet, meeting with Capt. Auguste who waited for them on the tarmac.
"Captain Auguste, I'm Major Pickford, this is Lt. Samson, Brettish Royal Army Intelligence," said Pickford as he and Samson flashed their ID badges to the Sereniérrese commander. "Can you bring us up to speed please?"
Aboard Flight 239
Kate Lockard and Tilly Muggleson, the two off-duty flight attendants, gently reassured the passengers. With most of the terrorists on the upper deck, Kate and Tilly had managed to convince the wavering Alexander Laskari, “Louis” to them, to move about the cabin to help calm the passengers. They moved slowly, giving water to the thirsty passengers while covertly passing notes between seats. For the ailing diabetic Henri, Kate managed to get his insulin bag from the cargo container, telling the otherwise ignorant “Louis” that she was simply checking an electrical fuse that happened to be behind the overhead compartment. The two women glided through the cabin with grace and civility amidst the extreme danger in which they were putting themselves. Before long, they managed to gain the hijacker’s trust, and he allowed them to continue tending to the needs of the hostages.
“Captain,” said Kate, finding Captain Taylor seated in seat 64D, at the rear of the airplane. Under her hand, she passed him a note from Andrew Pettyfer. He had been watching the events unfolding outside his window for some time, and being a former intelligence officer, he realized that preparations were being made to storm the plane. When Taylor opened the note, he saw it simply read: “Charlie-Foxtrot via Nose Down.” It was a code: “Clusterfuck coming through, keep your head down.”
“Tell the passengers to get their seats put all the way up, and to slouch down a little in their seats so their heads are completely under the seatbacks. Tell them to be ready to assume 'crash position.' Be very calm and very quiet about it.” said the Captain to Kate.
“What’s happening?” whispered Kate, as Louis the Hijacker stood before the passengers at the front of the plane.
“I think we’re about to be extras in a real-life action movie,” said Taylor.
On the upper deck, the terrorists sat and waited for the phone call from Kronstadt, while watching the clock on the bulkhead wall. Paul sat on the couch, his arms tied up again for the video they had sent to Kronstadt and Villesen. In the face of danger he remained resiliently calm, even as he sat with seven terrorists armed with sub machine guns. His eyes danced back and forth between the terrorists: the two who stood by the cockpit door, Anna sitting in a chair in the middle of the lounge, and five others milled about the room. His eyes stopped on Anna, who sat there watching the time on her wristwatch.
“Are you really going to kill me?” he asked Anna, breaking the silence in the room.
“I suppose that depends on what your government does,” she said in response, her emotionless voice carrying through the room like an icy breeze.
“What do I have anything to do with what my government does? I'm not important. My mum paints for a living and I’m just a student. I don’t care about the government…” he started to protest, throwing Anna into a rage. She stood up from her seat, grabbing the boy by his shirt and sticking a pistol against his neck.
“You don’t care what your government has done? They’re sending my brothers-in-arms back to Aresura to be executed! If the death of one little boy could save thousands more,” she said before stopping. The protests of the whiny little kid was really starting to bug her. Frustrated beyond belief, Anna's finger rubbed against the trigger of the pistol, itching to be pulled. Before she could do it though, she pulled the gun away from Paul and threw him to the floor. His wrists still bound, he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes before rolling onto his back. A sharp pain ran up his wrist, as if a bone had been broken. Anna walked up, her pistol still drawn as she pointed it at his face.
She watched as he held his hands in front of his face, hoping somewhat futilely that they would deflect the bullet. Still, through the monstrous terror and pain he was in, he didn't even shed a single tear. Anna laughed as she watch him lying there on the floor. Despite the dramatic announcement made via satellite, she would rather let the insolent brat suffer in pain for a few hours before killing him. She pulled her hair back behind her ear with one hand as she held the pistol in the other, before looking at her watch.
“Take the brat downstairs and place him with the others,” she ordered, as she pulled out nine passports from her pocket. “And bring me these 9." "And of course, Mr. Andrew Pettyfer,” she said, handing one of the terrorists a Brettish passport marked "DIPLOMATIC." It was time.
Georgios picked Paul up by his wrists as he let out a dreadful moan from the pain. The terrorist dragged him to his feet and forced him down the spiral stairs, pushing him the entire way down. When they reached the bottom deck, he spun the boy around by the arm and threw him into the aisle. “Go sit,” he said, throwing Paul into the arms of a stunned Tilly Muggleson.
“What are you doing, woman?” he said, looking at Tilly as she stood in the aisle, her eyes wide open from fear. She slowly pushed Paul behind her, acting as a human shield against the terrorist. Georgios cocked his weapon, aiming it at Tilly's chest. "You are not to be leaving your seats! Who said you could leave your seat!" he yelled. His gun aimed, he readied himself to fire on Tilly until a shrill voice from the upper deck distracted him.
“Georgios! Now!” shouted Anna from the top deck.
The Colonel was angry. There was no time to waste punishing some air hostess. Instead of taking out his frustration on Tilly, he simply smacked Alexander on the back of the head with his hand.
“Ilíthios!” he said. ("Stupid!")
Georgios hastily gathered the nine passengers that Anna wanted: 7 Sereniérrese passengers and 2 Bretons. He pushed them at gunpoint onto the upper deck. Then, with his loaded gun, he approached Andrew Pettyfer’s seat.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Upstairs.”
Through the chaos of the evening, the Situation Room had its moments of silence as the Ministers came to terms with the situation at hand. Breaking through the silence, they could hear the gentle tune of hymns coming from the windows. The Prime Minister stood from his seat, walked over to the window, and pulled back the curtains. Beyond the wrought-iron gates, he could see the dim flickers of candlelight cast amongst a sea of people outside of the gate as the Brettish people held vigil for the passengers aboard Flight 239. Upon seeing this, it would be the only time the Prime Minister smiled throughout the evening.
Remus International Airport
The commandeered executive jet that carried Maj. Pickford and Lt. Samson touched down at Remus with a puff of smoke and a screech of the tires. The two men had been going over copies of the schematics that Bowen Aerospace had delivered to the Sereniérrese and Brettish intelligence operatives, familiarizing themselves with every seat, every compartment, and every bulkhead on the jumbo jet. Perhaps the most complicated task would be rescuing hostages, if any, that were kept on the upper deck. The encrypted intelligence reports from the Sereniérrese team reported terrorists up there, and the only way to access it was via the staircase from the lower deck.
The night air was cool at Remus, heavy with dew after a brief rainstorm late the previous evening. The rain had stopped by the time the Brettish team touched down, but the bright white lights that poured out on the airliner reflected on the black tarmac of the airport. A crisp breeze welcomed the two men as they disembarked the jet, meeting with Capt. Auguste who waited for them on the tarmac.
"Captain Auguste, I'm Major Pickford, this is Lt. Samson, Brettish Royal Army Intelligence," said Pickford as he and Samson flashed their ID badges to the Sereniérrese commander. "Can you bring us up to speed please?"
Aboard Flight 239
Kate Lockard and Tilly Muggleson, the two off-duty flight attendants, gently reassured the passengers. With most of the terrorists on the upper deck, Kate and Tilly had managed to convince the wavering Alexander Laskari, “Louis” to them, to move about the cabin to help calm the passengers. They moved slowly, giving water to the thirsty passengers while covertly passing notes between seats. For the ailing diabetic Henri, Kate managed to get his insulin bag from the cargo container, telling the otherwise ignorant “Louis” that she was simply checking an electrical fuse that happened to be behind the overhead compartment. The two women glided through the cabin with grace and civility amidst the extreme danger in which they were putting themselves. Before long, they managed to gain the hijacker’s trust, and he allowed them to continue tending to the needs of the hostages.
“Captain,” said Kate, finding Captain Taylor seated in seat 64D, at the rear of the airplane. Under her hand, she passed him a note from Andrew Pettyfer. He had been watching the events unfolding outside his window for some time, and being a former intelligence officer, he realized that preparations were being made to storm the plane. When Taylor opened the note, he saw it simply read: “Charlie-Foxtrot via Nose Down.” It was a code: “Clusterfuck coming through, keep your head down.”
“Tell the passengers to get their seats put all the way up, and to slouch down a little in their seats so their heads are completely under the seatbacks. Tell them to be ready to assume 'crash position.' Be very calm and very quiet about it.” said the Captain to Kate.
“What’s happening?” whispered Kate, as Louis the Hijacker stood before the passengers at the front of the plane.
“I think we’re about to be extras in a real-life action movie,” said Taylor.
On the upper deck, the terrorists sat and waited for the phone call from Kronstadt, while watching the clock on the bulkhead wall. Paul sat on the couch, his arms tied up again for the video they had sent to Kronstadt and Villesen. In the face of danger he remained resiliently calm, even as he sat with seven terrorists armed with sub machine guns. His eyes danced back and forth between the terrorists: the two who stood by the cockpit door, Anna sitting in a chair in the middle of the lounge, and five others milled about the room. His eyes stopped on Anna, who sat there watching the time on her wristwatch.
“Are you really going to kill me?” he asked Anna, breaking the silence in the room.
“I suppose that depends on what your government does,” she said in response, her emotionless voice carrying through the room like an icy breeze.
“What do I have anything to do with what my government does? I'm not important. My mum paints for a living and I’m just a student. I don’t care about the government…” he started to protest, throwing Anna into a rage. She stood up from her seat, grabbing the boy by his shirt and sticking a pistol against his neck.
“You don’t care what your government has done? They’re sending my brothers-in-arms back to Aresura to be executed! If the death of one little boy could save thousands more,” she said before stopping. The protests of the whiny little kid was really starting to bug her. Frustrated beyond belief, Anna's finger rubbed against the trigger of the pistol, itching to be pulled. Before she could do it though, she pulled the gun away from Paul and threw him to the floor. His wrists still bound, he hit the floor like a sack of potatoes before rolling onto his back. A sharp pain ran up his wrist, as if a bone had been broken. Anna walked up, her pistol still drawn as she pointed it at his face.
She watched as he held his hands in front of his face, hoping somewhat futilely that they would deflect the bullet. Still, through the monstrous terror and pain he was in, he didn't even shed a single tear. Anna laughed as she watch him lying there on the floor. Despite the dramatic announcement made via satellite, she would rather let the insolent brat suffer in pain for a few hours before killing him. She pulled her hair back behind her ear with one hand as she held the pistol in the other, before looking at her watch.
“Take the brat downstairs and place him with the others,” she ordered, as she pulled out nine passports from her pocket. “And bring me these 9." "And of course, Mr. Andrew Pettyfer,” she said, handing one of the terrorists a Brettish passport marked "DIPLOMATIC." It was time.
Georgios picked Paul up by his wrists as he let out a dreadful moan from the pain. The terrorist dragged him to his feet and forced him down the spiral stairs, pushing him the entire way down. When they reached the bottom deck, he spun the boy around by the arm and threw him into the aisle. “Go sit,” he said, throwing Paul into the arms of a stunned Tilly Muggleson.
“What are you doing, woman?” he said, looking at Tilly as she stood in the aisle, her eyes wide open from fear. She slowly pushed Paul behind her, acting as a human shield against the terrorist. Georgios cocked his weapon, aiming it at Tilly's chest. "You are not to be leaving your seats! Who said you could leave your seat!" he yelled. His gun aimed, he readied himself to fire on Tilly until a shrill voice from the upper deck distracted him.
“Georgios! Now!” shouted Anna from the top deck.
The Colonel was angry. There was no time to waste punishing some air hostess. Instead of taking out his frustration on Tilly, he simply smacked Alexander on the back of the head with his hand.
“Ilíthios!” he said. ("Stupid!")
Georgios hastily gathered the nine passengers that Anna wanted: 7 Sereniérrese passengers and 2 Bretons. He pushed them at gunpoint onto the upper deck. Then, with his loaded gun, he approached Andrew Pettyfer’s seat.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Upstairs.”
