Thursday, December 28, 2006

"Golf-India Two-Niner, surface-to-air missile!" shrieked a normally cool, collected air-traffic controller.

"What the??" before a ear-deafening blast reverbated throughout the jumbo bet, shattering windows and causing baggage to tumble from the overhead compartments. Oxygen masks ominously dropped as the screaming continued unabated. Strapped in as we were, the impact still felt like a car crash at 100km/h.

"Who's doing the shooting? Who's doing the fucking shooting??" Detritch shouted. I waved him down impatiently.

Amurio slumped in his chair, blood leaking from an ugly gash at his forehead. For the moment, we could do nothing about him.

"We lost engine 4, it's gone," Detritch said breathlessly, looking the display, a bead of sweat running down the side of his forehead and a trickle of blood from his nose. "Both outer engines are on fire, the extinguishers can't handle it. We're losing altitude and airspeed rapidly, Captain!"

I froze for a second, but just the one second. "Cut power to all engines, dump the fuel, we're gonna have to ditch!"

"Dump the fuel? Cap', the engines are on fire!"

"Dump the fuel, goddammnit!"

I grabbed the microphone again, an action that had become all too familiar in the past 20 minutes. "Attention all passengers, we are about to make an emergency landing. I repeat, the aircraft is about to ditch. Brace yourselves, take up ditching positions with heads between your knees and hands in front of your head. Aircraft crew, please assist!"

"Cap', I can't find any fucking landing strips!" Detritch screamed, juggling eletronic and analog controls alike in a bizarre mockery of an ad-hoc symphony.

"We don't have a fucking choice - anywhere will do!"

I tensed, watching hundreds of gallons of high-octane spray from the tanks on the numeric display, praying a stray spark didn't turn the plane into a barbecue of the heavens.

"Lower ailerons and flaps," doing my best to keep my voice steady.

"Lower ailerons and flaps, aye."

The ground continued to advance at a sickening pace.

"Know any good last words?" Detritch quipped, eyes fixed on the alimeter, knuckles white against the controls.

"Hit me, I'm stumped."

"If we make it out of this in one piece, I'm going back to church."

"Don't start counting your chickens, man."

"It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings. Engage landing gear?"

"Fuck the fat lady, nobody's singing just yet. Not yet - not 'til we're almost down."

Even with both of us pushing the pedals to the maximum, steering a crippled 747 felt like trying to direct a airborne blue whale. The controls were soggy and barely responded at all, which meant most of the hydraulic control lines must have been severed by the explosion or resulting debris.

"Cap', we won't make it to any available runways."

"We're just gonna have to make our own, then." I strained my eyes. "See that highway up ahead?"

"Oh shit, landing this bird on that slab of pavement?" A further rumble shook the aircraft violently, pitching the continous screams behind us to a new crescendo.

"It's our only choice."

Detritch looked grim, then nodded. "In-fucking-credible."

As the highway loomed closer, I noted thankfully it was almost empty. Almost.

"Engage landing gear."

"Engage landing gear, aye."