But Flight 19 hadn’t just messed up my life. I wasn’t the only one to walk out of the confines of Hangar 19 to a life that had evaporated. I was one of many who returned to absolutely nothing: no money, possessions, clothes, car, living space, or furniture, and in some cases even no photos. The things we’d taken for granted and would never have thrown away, in many cases, were all gone.
In some ways, being single made it easier to deal with. Many of the people who had been in relationships when they boarded the plane had lost their loved ones on top of their possessions. Some had died, but others had just moved on, sometimes after years alone, before they finally lost hope that anyone on Flight 19 was ever coming back. And who could blame them?
How long, reader, would you wait?
Nevertheless, seeing that others had it worse didn’t do too much to take my mind off my own problems. What ticked me off more than anything was that everything I had worked for had been lost not through the hand of fate, exactly, but because of Mum, in the absence of the only person who’d ever succeeded in controlling her gambling habit—me.
But the real kick in the guts was that when my money had finally all but run out, I hadn’t been there to stop Mum taking the only thing I thought she’d never pawn—her own life.
Her two brothers, who were assholes in the real sense of the word, had drunk what was left of her money at their local bars in North Queensland, where they had lived for the last 20 years.
Not once had either of them traveled down to Sydney to support Mum while she grieved for my disappearance. But when she died, they happily drove down to snatch up her meager personal effects, plus the few grand she still had left for living expenses.
I wish I could have chosen better siblings for my mother. But as they say, you can choose your friends, but not your family. When I eventually got back to Australia, if that ever happened, I’d be tempted to drop into Queensland and pay my late mother’s siblings a visit. Maybe at Christmas time, to give them a present—my left fist in their collective jaws. In the spirit of Christmas, I could even wrap some tinsel around my knuckles.
Jokes aside, losing my mother had cut me deeper than any grief I had ever experienced ever before. Her gambling away everything I owned was just like rubbing acid into an open cut on your hand. That’s the best way to describe my heartache.
And as it so happened, in my current neck of the woods, Hollywood, fortunes could change overnight.
The deal I would sign with CNN in 48 hours’ time would be worth three times the value of my previous estate, with a substantial amount of change left over. So unless something changed in the next two days, I was home free.
The final confirmation had come through the previous afternoon, but I have to admit my initial feelings were quite mixed.
For most, being told you were about to become a millionaire would be a special moment, but the truth was that I would happily trade the money for never having been on Pacific International Airlines Flight PI019.
Speaking of Pacific International, the board had yet to decide what to do with the crew of Flight 19, or the A380 itself, for that matter.
Most in the know expected a decision to come soon. The company was under enormous pressure from various parties to do something for us: offer everyone a job (again) or provide some compensation. Some crew members made no deals to sell their story, and some even received no offers, so the onus fell on Pacific International to do something for them financially.
Most of the crew that flew under me on that fateful flight would never return to the skies. Some never even got on a plane again—a few even opted for a long, drawn-out boat cruise to their homeland of Australia rather than daring to board another flight.
The two who would board another plane eventually wished they could swap places with those co-workers they made fun of for taking nearly 24 days to return to Australia on a cruise liner from LA.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
With his apartment and all the furniture in it long-since sold, it was no surprise that Todd Roberts had been living with his mother since walking out of the gates at Vandenberg. And finally we hit some good news—not only had she saved every cent from the sale of his apartment, she’d invested it. Todd would get all his money back and then some.
Todd and Kylie Roberts needed each other in those first few days and weeks after Todd’s release.
Both were healthy, intelligent, and emotionally balanced people. But even so, for Kylie, the return of her son had revived the heart-shattering emotions she had felt when her husband was murdered. It was still a raw wound, even three years on. And though she was ecstatic he was alive, having Todd back was hard to get used to. It would be a common theme for many passengers and their loved ones.
Long-gone loved ones—now back in the flesh.
On the other hand, Todd struggled with the notion that his father was genuinely gone forever. There was nothing, nothing, that Todd could do to bring him back.
That was the hardest part. Todd was a rational guy—or he had been before boarding Flight 19—and he knew one day he would somehow learn to live without his father.
One day.
At least, in the meantime, he had a home to return to.
And then there was someone he’d met on the A380.
Emily Collins had been in touch with him many times since they had returned to the world in 2024. Even though they hadn’t called them dates, they’d met on three occasions since leaving Vandenberg. The press, keeping their promise to give all passengers space and privacy (with an implicit or else from the AFOA), had nevertheless been full of whispers about the first romance from the ill-fated flight.
Although Emily and Todd had been offered deals to sell their stories to a major American media organization, they had shocked many around them by declining the enormous carrot that had been dangled in front of them both. The press still believed that one day Emily and Todd would talk; it was only a matter of time.
Emily was not keen to put her life in the spotlight, and they would have to offer more for her to reconsider. She was also reluctant to talk because she knew they’d eventually ask her about Todd.
Emily liked the former Californian Highway Patrol officer (who in three weeks would be offered his old position back with the force). She wanted to see where their emerging connection went, but she was a private person and didn’t want that to happen in public view.
Selling out to the insatiable appetite of anyone interested in the passengers of Flight 19—and there were millions—was not an ideal way to make a relationship evolve.
Emily was also very intuitive and could almost sense the way someone was feeling. Over dinner one night at the Roberts’ immaculately restored California bungalow, less than a block from Santa Monica State Beach, she sensed something about Todd. It was just the ripple of a feeling, but later it would become a tidal wave.
It was the first time she had dinner with Todd and his mother, and sadly, it would be one of only a few times she would do so.
Kylie had made her signature dish. It was beyond delicious, and Emily couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten lasagna that good. Emily, the ultimate dinner guest, had bought a bottle of New Zealand South Island Sauvignon Blanc, and a bottle of Penfolds Bin 28 Shiraz, 2004.
“This is the best meal I’ve had in some time, Kylie,” Emily said across the dining table. Todd smirked and winked at Emily; praising his mother for her cooking was a sure-fire way to get on her good side.
“Thank you, hon,” Kylie smiled after taking a sip from her chilled glass of white wine. She had called just about everyone “hon,” short for “honey,” for as long as Todd could remember.
About half an hour later, Kylie led Emily arm in arm into the front room. It was time to show her the photo collection. Todd, not wishing to see the dorky pictures of himself as a gangly teenager, volunteered to do the dishes. No one argued.
Todd’s third glass of Bin 28 began to take hold of his senses as he busied himself in the kitch
en sink full of hot water and dishes.
As he had done hundreds of times in the past few weeks, Todd’s vision filled itself with his father’s face. As Todd looked out the kitchen window, he pictured his father standing in the backyard, looking straight back at him.
For the first few days after leaving Vandenberg, Todd had thought of these apparitions as part of the mourning process. But he had come to take them more seriously. As he poured himself a fourth glass of wine after finishing the dishes, smiling as he heard the squawks of laughter filtering from the lounge room, he took one final look out the kitchen window.
His father now stood before him in his full patrol uniform, right outside the window. His mouth was moving.
A chill ran through Todd’s spine as he lip-read the silent words.
“Kill him, son. For me.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Tammy Hourigan’s third child passed away at birth, strangled by her umbilical cord as she was leaving the womb. How ironic it was, Tammy eventually thought, that one of the very things that gave her daughter life should also take it from her.
Tammy, shattered beyond words, was put under heavy sedation within minutes of learning the heartbreaking news. She would remain at the hospital for another three days. The medical staff were inconsolable; it should have been a routine delivery.
But as the AFOAs were quickly discovering, the curse of Flight 19 was only just beginning.
Tammy believed the birth of her third child would give her pummeled self-esteem a much-needed boost. Like many of her fellow passengers, she was still finding it hard to believe her former life was now a mere shadow on the world.
Her (former) husband Brandon was now legally married to the one person she wished he had never met.
Her sister.
Her two children were now the under the control of these two people.
All her possessions—every hanger of clothing, every single shoe (all 26 pairs) jewelry, collected bits and pieces from her entire life—gone.
Her sister had believed keeping any reminders of Tammy in the house after marrying Brandon would be bad luck. The final insult would come later, when Tammy found that even her parents had sided with her sister, and hadn’t bothered to keep any of her possessions in their ridiculously large attic.
They told Tammy most of her stuff had gone to charity, though she would sooner believe all of it had gone straight into the trash. Her sister’s heartlessness showed no boundaries: even the photos of her wedding with Brandon no longer existed.
In the final blow of cruelty, her sister had pawned the wedding ring Tammy had slipped over Brandon’s finger the day they were married. She swapped it for a dusty old Xbox, which her two children now played way too often, as her sister found it easier than taking them to the park.
In the last remaining hours of Tammy’s third pregnancy, the mood in the delivery room was upbeat to the point of giddiness. The team decided they would tell Tammy the sex of her unborn child, as she had made no secret of the desire to bring another girl into the world. So they told her.
The smile on her face was the biggest they had seen since they first met her, and for a moment, they all believed that this might be the first positive thing to come from Flight 19.
After losing everything in her life, Tammy felt a sense of pride knowing that her third child would always remain hers.
It made Tammy’s resolve to get through this awful period of her life even stronger.
Nothing could ever compensate Tammy for the loss of her beloved second daughter.
But life for Tammy Dickson (she would return to her maiden name in a matter of weeks) would turn around from all of this tragedy, and not just in the financial sense.
Thanks to Flight 19, she would soon realize Brandon Hourigan was never going to be her soulmate; hers had been aboard the A380.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Michael E. Darcy, thanks to Flight 19, was now one of the world’s most famous—or as some preferred, infamous—ex-billionaires.
In his five missing years, Darcy had been stripped of his significant fortune, with what some financial commentators characterized as a level of business bloodlust not seen in modern times.
There was almost universal consensus among the press that Darcy had been an asshole of biblical proportions, caring little for anyone but those who helped him expand his already obscenely fat wallet. But they also agreed that the actions of a group of his so-called friends and colleagues, upon his disappearance, had been over the top.
Some of the people feeding on his extensive fortune had behaved as if they were at a banquet for the court of Henry VIII—but with the food on the table swapped for a shitload of moolah.
But that period was now over, and now Michael E. Darcy, circa 2024, had to deal with the consequences.
Other billionaires rallied around him, along with people who believed that he had been mistreated. The truth was, there were only four people, spaced around the world’s seven continents, who knew the truth about Darcy.
That truth might have surprised you.
But with it still under wraps, Michael E. Darcy went back to what he did best. He exuded arrogance as if it were in his pores, kept his chin permanently pointed above the horizon, and wobbled his head as if nothing had happened to him. He focused on what made him feel good.
Since Flight 19, his love of the world’s finest alcohol had only grown stronger. His bar tab at the Beverly Hills Hotel would break records.
The vultures who had fought among themselves for a chunk of Darcy’s money were now keeping a keen eye on him, anxious to see what he might do, and what they found most surprising was how he seemed to be living without a care in the world.
But men of Darcy’s ilk, whose net worth’s have once exceeded the magic three sets of zeros, don’t get there without having been smart with money.
Did someone say, “secret offshore bank account”?
The Swiss have been hiding trillions of dollars in their banks for the last 80-plus years, for individuals and organizations alike who wished to remain fastidiously anonymous. So have Liechtenstein, Monaco, the Caymans, Malta, Hong Kong, and in recent years, Singapore.
Most of the time, these stinking-rich tightwads’ main motivation was to pay way less tax. But more people than you might think had slipped vast amounts of cash into offshore accounts for a (financial) rainy day. In Darcy’s case, make that a category five hurricane.
Drilling down to the harsher end reality, we can recognize that many had this money hidden not only from the shareholders and the most senior employees of their business empires, but from the people closest to them—their parents, partners, and children.
So when Darcy learned, from one of the few ex-employees that hadn’t wanted to see him burn, that his fortune was essentially gone, his immediate response was the sort of stuff you’d put in a manual called Arrogance for Dummies.
A small grin appeared on his lips.
“Well, I guess it’s your shout, then,” he said looking over to the bar where they’d met straight after he’d gotten out of Vandenberg.
Michael E. Darcy was many things to many people, but one thing he wasn’t—was naïve. He knew, the second he’d learned of the fate of himself and the other passengers from Flight 19, that his considerable fortune would no longer be his.
Not only had he envisaged the possibility of losing his fortune, but he’d taken steps only a chosen few mega-rich businessmen had, just in case.
It was a scheme dirty enough to please the most brazen Wall Street Ponzi-scheme operator, but far more complicated. There was one organization (one of the oldest, and still the best) operating since the dying days of the First World War, whose sole purpose was to do what they’d done for Michael E. Darcy.
For a hefty fee, this firm would secret away a sizable amount of money, with his consent, and then bury the cash in accounts in the deepest and darkest vaults, which only he could access, and only through a series of identification checks
, long-winded passwords, and processes that took days to navigate.
Michael E. Darcy would learn that even in the five years of his disappearance, protocols at this old company had changed considerably, and the amount of hoops he would have to jump through to get to even stage one of the process was significant.
But he didn’t care about that. He had plenty of time on his hands. And he also needed the money. He was considering buying a very large object currently gathering dust near the Californian coast.
Chapter Thirty
Tim Erwin, like every other passenger on the ill-fated flight, was struggling to return to anything akin to a normal life after leaving the confines of Vandenberg AFB in 2024.
On the outside, he seemed to be coping with the personal tragedy with stoicism. He had been raised in a household ruled by an iron fist: his father, born and bred for the air force, did not tolerate emotional displays at all. Apparently, his own father, Tim’s grandfather, had been the same, perhaps due to having to support his family from a young age after his father disappeared in an air tragedy in the late 1920s.
Tim recalled hearing this old family story as a child, though he had long forgotten the details. His father’s tough love, if that’s what you could call it, had seen Tim blot out just about every memory he had from before his twenty-first birthday.
Driving through the streets of Alameda with his wife—who had just survived her third heart attack—at his side, felt surreal. If no one had told them they had been missing, presumed dead, for the last five years, they’d have been none the wiser. Nothing had changed, from the outside. Alameda still looked pretty much the same as it had done the last time they had seen it. There was nothing out of the ordinary that screamed of a five-year gap. Nothing.
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