by Nick Hale
At last Jake felt tired. He needed a pillow. He pressed the call button for the flight attendant. A few seconds passed and Helga came through. Her smiles from earlier had gone and her skin seemed even paler: glacial, like the landscape below.
‘Could I have a pillow?’ he asked.
She frowned. ‘We’ll be landing soon,’ she said briskly.
‘Oh,’ said Jake. He checked his watch. At least another hour. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she said, before striding back towards the cockpit.
What’s got into her? Jake wondered.
A minute later Helga came through again, carrying a small bag. Jake thought she must have changed her mind and brought him a pillow. But she strode by without a word, disappearing past Daniel Powell’s seat and into the rear of the plane where the cargo was stored.
Jake tried to make himself comfortable on the sofa, lying sideways. He looked up at the curtain that separated the cockpit from the rest of the cabin. A dark dribble of liquid was forming a puddle beneath the curtain’s edge.
One of the pilots must have spilt his coffee, Jake thought.
Jake picked up a napkin and walked over to wipe the floor. Only when he was close did he realise the liquid was a deep red. Definitely not coffee.
Jake pushed the curtain aside.
Max Siegel, the co-pilot, was slumped backward in his chair as though asleep. The small red hole in his forehead told a different story, as did the hole in the pilot’s chest. His white shirt was soaked with blood, which trickled down his limp arm and on to the floor.
Both pilots had been shot.
5
‘Dad! Wake up!’ Jake ran back into the cabin and shook his dad’s shoulders.
His dad’s eyes snapped open. He gripped Jake’s arms.
‘What is it?’ he shouted. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The pilots – they’ve been shot.’
His dad sprang to his feet, upsetting the champagne glass that rested on the table. ‘What are you talking about?’
Jake dragged his dad into the aisle and pointed. He still couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Two men. Murdered.
The co-pilot’s body sagged gently to one side, then rolled forward on to the steering column. The plane’s engines roared, the right wing jerking suddenly upward.
Jake was thrown sideways, crashing over another table and slamming his head against the fuselage wall. The bottles in the bar fell one by one, smashing across the marble surface, and showering the floor with glass.
His dad stumbled beside him and caught himself on the edge of a sofa. With one hand holding himself against the wall, he edged his way towards the cockpit. Jake followed, trying to avoid the growing pool of blood.
His dad heaved the co-pilot’s body off the control panel and pushed it roughly out of the seat as though he saw dead bodies every day. Jake stepped forward, scanning the levers and gauges in panic. It may as well have been the Starship Enterprise. He recognised the odd word – Anti-Ice, Lights, Pressurisation – but the switches, buttons and dials were mostly marked with coded abbreviations.
We haven’t got a chance.
The plane’s nose was now tipping downward and to the left. Shreds of cloud ripped past the cockpit window.
‘What do we do?’ Jake asked, his throat tight with fear.
His dad grabbed the steering column and tugged it around. The plane’s right side dipped sharply, as the wings rocked the other way. Jake fell against the dead pilot and cried out in disgust.
‘Check Powell,’ his dad said.
‘But what about you?’ Jake asked.
‘Just do it!’ shouted his dad. ‘Now.’
Jake stumbled backward out of the cockpit. His dad reached across the panel and eased out a lever.
What’s he doing? Jake thought. He knew his dad had had a couple of flying lessons in the 1980s, but this was crazy. He surely couldn’t fly something like this.
Powell was in his seat, but slumped across the sofa, hidden by the backrest. At first, Jake assumed the worst. But there was no blood. As he tried to wake him, the journalist moaned groggily. It was as if he was drunk.
Or drugged. Jake remembered Helga’s smiling face as she offered Powell a glass of champagne.
Helga. Had she killed the pilots? Drugged Powell? It was the only answer.
Jake left Powell in his seat and headed towards the back of the plane, past the remains of the bar, where the air was thick with the sharp smells of mingled spirits. His dad had finally managed to level the plane.
Past the toilet was a small kitchen area, all stainless steel and neat compartments. Beyond that, a hatch, swinging open. Jake climbed through the hatch on his hands and knees. This route was obviously meant for crew only.
The cargo hold took up almost the back third of the plane. A set of metal steps led down to telemetric equipment panels. The air was colder, like stepping into a refrigeration unit. Jake spotted some of the boxes they were bringing with them, stacked in place and secured with canvas webbing.
And beyond that was Helga.
She was bent over, changing her high-heels for some heavy-duty boots. On her back was a rucksack, secured tightly over her cabin-crew uniform.
A parachute.
‘Stop!’ Jake yelled.
Helga’s head snapped round and she fixed him with her blue eyes.
Jake noticed a spatter of blood on her uniform. Her eyes dropped to the top of a crate between them. On it rested a gun.
They both lunged for the weapon, but she was closer.
As she reached the crate, the plane juddered through a pocket of turbulence. Her outstretched fingers caught the gun’s hilt, but sent it skidding on to the floor. It landed at Jake’s feet. He bent down and picked it up, bringing the barrel round to face Helga.
She stopped dead.
Jake had never held a gun. It was heavier than he expected. Colder too. With his finger feathering the trigger, he brought up his left hand to support his right wrist.
Helga smiled.
‘What are you going to do, boy?’ she said. ‘Shoot me?’
She took a step forward, round the side of the crate.
‘Stay away!’ shouted Jake, stumbling back. The gun’s barrel was lengthened by what he knew was a silencer. He’d only ever seen one in the movies.
Helga took another step. She was four paces away.
‘You don’t have the guts,’ she sneered.
Jake opened his mouth to speak, to tell her to freeze, but she twisted. Her foot flashed up like a darting snake and the gun jerked from Jake’s hand, causing him to pull the trigger. A shower of sparks cascaded over them. Helga turned full circle, crouching low. Her other foot shot out, catching him in the ribs. Jake felt his feet leave the ground, and then pain exploded across his back as he crashed on to the metal steps. It had happened in less than a second.
He opened his eyes. Helga was already at the rear door again. With an elbow, she smashed a panel of Perspex then twisted the handle behind it. Once. Twice.
Jake tried to push himself to his feet, but the pain won and he sank back. He could smell smoke. A panel above him fizzed where the stray bullet had landed.
Helga yanked the door and it opened sideways. Air sucked through the hold as it depressurised, blasting the smoke away. The webbing and any loose straps streamed towards the gap, and seconds later a flurry of papers burst through the hatch from the main cabin and spiralled out like confetti caught in a hurricane. Helga gripped each side of the door, framed by black sky.
‘Do svidanya,’ she said, then winked.
She jumped.
Jake struggled upright, his back in agony, and clambered towards the rear door, gripping the webbing to keep himself steady. The gale slowed then stopped as the plane pressure equalised. Jake reached the open door. A brief, stomach-churning glance revealed the ground wheeling, thousands of feet below. They were getting closer. The roar of the jet stream outside was intense. Jake turned away, gripped
the handles of the door and yanked it closed. He spun the handle anticlockwise, sealing the hold.
The din ceased, only to be replaced by a cacophony of alarms and lights from the hazard alert systems.
With no ventilation, smoke was filling the upper reaches of the cargo deck. Jake looked around for a fire extinguisher, but couldn’t see one.
He hurried back up the steps into the main cabin. There was smoke there too, but thinner. Powell was still lolling across his seat. Oxygen masks had dropped from the overhead panel and Jake pulled Powell’s down further, looping the elastic band around the journalist’s head.
Jake left him breathing through his drugged haze, and made his way back to the cockpit.
‘Glad you could make it,’ said his dad. ‘Take a seat.’
Jake stared at his dad in astonishment. He was casually sitting in the co-pilot’s seat and gripping the controls like nothing strange was happening.
‘Helga attacked me. She jumped –’
‘Just sit down, Jake. I need your help.’ He nodded at the pilot’s seat, keeping his eyes fixed forward.
The blood-stained pilot was pale as snow. His lips were purple already. Jake struggled against his nausea as he put a hand under the pilot’s armpits and tried to lift him. He weighed a ton.
‘No need to treat him gently,’ his dad said. ‘He can’t feel anything now.’
He reached past Jake and grabbed the pilot’s tie. With one tug, he rolled the dead man off the seat and on to the floor.
Jake ignored the sodden patch of blood and sat in the seat, still warm from the pilot’s body.
A red light above the console blinked into life, along with a honking alarm.
‘We’ve got a fire,’ said Jake’s dad.
‘I know,’ said Jake. ‘That’s what I was trying to –’
‘You see the transmitter on your right?’ his dad interrupted. ‘Call in a mayday.’
Jake unhooked the radio. He pushed down the button at the side and spoke into it. ‘This is flight er . . . P–O–P twenty-three . . . flying from London Heathrow to St Petersburg. We have a mayday – fire on board.’
Jake released the button. Nothing.
‘Do it again, Jake.’
Jake repeated the call. Still nothing.
‘Damn it!’ his dad said. ‘If we can’t . . .’
‘Flight P–O–P Two Three,’ said a Russian accent over the radio. ‘This is St Petersburg air traffic control. Mayday received. Current status please. Over.’
Jake’s dad leant over and Jake held the transmitter close to him.
‘We’re twenty miles south of St Petersburg. Fire on board. Pilots dead. Over.’
‘Who is speaking, please? Over.’
‘My name is Steve Bastin,’ he said.
‘Repeat please. Over.’
‘I said, the pilots . . .’
The radio cut off, and a spark leapt from the transmitter. A shock jolted through Jake’s hand and he dropped it with a cry.
‘It looks like we’re on our own.’ His dad bent forward and tapped a dial.
‘Can you land it?’ Jake asked.
‘If we can find a runway, maybe.’
The acrid stench of smoke reached Jake’s nostrils. Grey tendrils were snaking into the cockpit.
They were falling fast. As they burst through a layer of cloud, Jake could make out the patchwork of green fields below. The altimeter read 8,354 feet. Beads of sweat had broken out across Jake’s dad’s brow.
Suddenly, the plane gave a whump and dropped. Jake’s stomach rose into his throat. Another alarm joined the fire warning. His dad’s knuckles turned white on the steering column.
‘Disconnect the starboard engine!’ shouted his dad.
Jake frantically searched the control panel. ‘Where is it?’
‘Above the external pressure gauge,’ his dad yelled. ‘The two blue panels.’
Jake saw them.
‘Pull up the right one, turn the key,’ his dad instructed.
Jake opened the panel. There was writing inside. ‘DO NOT DISENGAGE ENGINE IN FLIGHT.’
‘Are you sure?’ Jake asked.
‘Just do it!’
Jake turned the key.
The plane continued to drop, but less quickly.
‘We need to land now,’ his dad said. He eased back the throttle and the plane fell again, this time more steadily.
The fields got closer. The land was flat – farming country. Jake made out forests too.
But no runway.
‘Belt up, Jake,’ said his dad, coughing. The smoke in the cockpit was thickening.
Jake did as he was told. His hands were shaking so much it took three goes to fasten the straps across his chest. What good would a seat-belt be when they crashed. The smoke brought tears to his eyes.
‘You see those two small switches above your head to the left?’ his dad said. ‘Push the right one down, wait ten seconds, then the next one.’ Jake obeyed. As he pushed the first, there was a whirring from somewhere in the fuselage. He flicked the second. There was a crunching and screeching of metal.
‘Is that right?’
An LED diagram of the plane in the middle of the controls glowed red at the base.
His dad thumped the control panel with the flat of his hand. ‘No!’ he yelled. ‘The landing gear’s wrecked –’
The ground was coming up fast now. The altimeter read 2,059 feet, and it was ticking down in a blur. Jake pulled his T-shirt up over his mouth to help him breathe.
He spotted a distant straight grey line on the ground, sharply to their right.
‘There, Dad!’ he said. ‘A road.’
His dad brought the steering column round and sent the plane towards the only chance they had. Jake didn’t know if a plane could land without its gear down. He thought he’d seen it in a movie. But this was real life. They were travelling at nearly 200 miles per hour according to the speedometer. If they hit the ground without wheels, Jake couldn’t help thinking they’d come apart like a tin can.
938 feet. Jake stared through the window. He didn’t need the altimeter now. He could see the road clearly in the moonlight – and thankfully there were no cars. A row of pylons zipped by at one side and there was a steep bank rising up on the other. The plane was swaying from side to side. There was smoke everywhere. Jake lost sight of the world outside.
His dad eased up the throttle once more and the plane’s nose lifted. Jake saw the ground approach, maybe a hundred feet away.
Too fast, he thought. We’re going too fast.
‘Hold on!’ his dad shouted.
6
They hit the road.
Jake was thrown up out of his seat with the shockwave that thudded through the cockpit. The nose of the plane angled down into the road, showering sparks up across the windscreen. The noise seemed to fill Jake’s head. Metal crushing and grinding, like the scream of a creature torn apart.
The plane tipped to one side as it slid at close to a hundred miles per hour, eating up the tarmac. A crack snaked across the Plexiglas, then it shattered into a thousand pieces, bursting inward. Jake threw up his arms. Everything became white noise – the searing air, the shower of sparks, the random debris bouncing off his body. It all filled his head like floodwater.
The wing must have caught the bank at the side of the road, because the plane jack-knifed round. The whole fuselage rocked sideways and Jake was thrown into the control panel to his side. The sensation of his body being shaken like a rag doll was without pain. Somewhere, deep within his mind, he knew that this was just the adrenalin numbing him – all of this was going to hurt tomorrow.
If it didn’t kill him tonight.
He caught a glimpse of his dad’s face, twisted with shock and teeth gritted.
Jake’s head smacked into something hard. Then he couldn’t see anything. His fingers closed on the armrests and he held on grimly.
The plane juddered to a halt.
Jake wasn’t sure how many seconds p
assed. Gradually the creaking and clanging of the decimated plane stopped and Jake was left with the sound of his own breathing and the chorus of dissonant alarms. He was pressed against the wall, his arm on the floor. Or where the floor had been. The cockpit was tilted at a sharp angle. Pain flooded everywhere. Jake checked each of his limbs in turn. Left leg. Flex. Right leg. Flex. Hands. Arms. Neck. All complained, but nothing seemed to be broken.
Jake unclipped the belt slowly and sagged out of the seat. Dizziness swallowed his vision for a second and his knees wobbled. Something tickled his forehead and he knew it was blood. He wiped a red smear away with the back of his hand. His dad was lying on the control panel, his legs still draped across his seat, which had been torn from its housing.
Jake rolled on to his knees.
‘Dad?’ he said. His dad wasn’t moving.
He’s dead.
‘Dad!’
His dad groaned, his face creasing in pain.
‘You’re alive,’ Jake said.
‘Just about.’ His dad rolled off the control panel. ‘We need to get out of here.’
Following his dad, and leaning against a tilted wall for support, Jake stumbled back into the main cabin. It was unrecognisable. The furniture was scattered to one side, upturned or broken into pieces. The whole place stank of alcohol, burnt plastic and fuel, mixed with smoke that seemed to billow from several places. The back of the plane was gone, and through a tangle of torn metal and wiring Jake looked out into the road behind. He could see the tail-end of the plane, and what looked like half a wing, about 200 metres away. Small fires burnt around the wreckage.
A foot stirred beneath a sofa.
‘Powell!’ said Jake.
The name brought a moan of recognition from the injured man. Jake and his dad rushed forward and together eased the weight off the journalist’s body. His clothes were torn and his left arm was bleeding, but otherwise he looked OK.
‘Tell the pilots to go back to flight school,’ he said, smiling weakly.
Taking an armpit each, Jake and his dad pulled Powell upright. He winced and hissed when Jake looped his left arm over his shoulder. ‘Probably broken,’ Jake said, trying to lift from his waist instead.
