ARIA (12 page)

“Get the fuck back, you morons,” Rogers yelled, but they were now at such a steep angle, they couldn’t. Anything not strapped down
and little was
joined him at the console. Crockery, clipboards, comatose co-pilot, and frantic, struggling people.

“Look what you’ve done,” screamed Julia, her red hair flying.

“It’s not me, it’s you guys piling too far in front.” He knew the error lay with him, but no one heard above the cacophony of engine and human howling.

Clever programming decided the time had come to rescue the stupid humans and overrode the manual operation by kicking in the autopilot. The plane pulled out of its gyrating dive and levelled off, found the original flight plan instructions, and by degrees, resumed the predestined altitude and direction.

Rogers, discovering he must have lost a litre of perspiration and urine to add to that of the others, grunted. “There, told you I could fly this bird.”

After a prolonged silence, Julia, small but assertive to the point of aggression, said, “You nearly killed us, you fucking ass.” Rogers swiped his large arm round and knocked her to the floor.

Another passenger pushed his way forward. Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. “I’m going to sue this airline for so many bucks, my bank manager will have a heart attack. Hey, Rogers, look at the compass, we’re still heading the wrong way.”

“You think I don’t know that? It’s the damn autopilot. Something must have knocked it back. I’m thinking of pulling its wires but can’t see how to get this panel off.”

Julia sat up from the floor, rubbing her head. “I don’t think we should be ripping the innards out of this plane, or we’ll be taking the shortcut down again.”

“What the fuck do you suggest then? The co-pilot is out of it and the captain’s a gibbering wreck, though we might pull him round if we sit on one of his flight attendants.”

Julia struggled to her feet. “Let’s ask around. There’s bound to be a flyer among the passengers. If I’d have known, I would have signed up for a flying module instead of learning to be a biology technician.”

One of Rogers’ acquaintances brought forward a scared, tall man. Navy blue suit trousers, white open-collared shirt, and shiny black brogues—the apparel of confidence misrepresenting the truth.

“I hear you’re a pilot. Name?” Rogers said, scrutinising the man.

“Findley. I’m not exp—”

Rogers had stopped listening, because he’d switched to wondering at how easy it was for him to have slipped into this masterful role. He ran a large business in the Bronx importing shirts. Something had gone wrong. It must have, because his electronic diary told him he had a meeting tomorrow with his backers in London. He couldn’t remember what the problem was. Better to go back and sort it. His head hurt, and he had to get this damn plane turned around.

“Right, Findley, you really a pilot?”

“I’ve not flown one of these Dreamliners.”

“Boeings, though?”

“Sure, but this bird is totally different.”

“Listen, Findley, I managed to fly it a bit—”

“We all noticed.”

“Yeah, well. We need an experienced pilot who won’t plunge us into the Atlantic when turning it round.”

“I don’t want to turn round. My fam–I, want to go on to London.”

“I don’t give a shit about what a few Brits like you think. We’re heading back to America where we need to be with our families.”

“Or else what? Crash-land in the sea? Without authority, we might get shot out of the sky as suspected terrorists.”

“Naw, the captain tried us on that one, but it won’t wash.”

“Well, put him back in the driving seat, because I am not helping.”

Rogers’ assistant smacked Findley across his head from behind. His fingers caught the pilot’s nose, which bled profusely.

“Nice one, Gav, now find out where his family are seated and sit on them.” The big man turned to the cries of Findley.

“Okay, okay, just leave my family alone.”

“Come over here.” Rogers took the conscript to the captain’s seat and pushed him into it. Linus was dragged out of the co-pilot’s chair and dumped on the floor next to the captain. Rogers sat in the co-pilot’s chair while fellow mutineers crowded round behind them, not being too careful about trampling the two on the floor.

Findley volunteered his observations. “I’ve seen this console on a training mock-up. Altitude ten thousand metres; speed point eight five mach; we have eighty-seven tons of fuel; autopilot engaged. What’s this? Ah, the transponder indicator is on.”

“Just a minute. That means we can be tracked,” Rogers said. “Turn it off.”

“All right. Oh, that’s neat, proximity sensors. There’s the HHS.”

“Just hang on there,” Julia said. “He was too quick to agree to turning off the transponder. Do you think that its being off would set some air-traffic control buzzer going?”

Findley wriggled. “They would definitely see us doing a U-turn if I left it on.”

Rogers struggled to work out if Findley was pulling a fast one. “Could be a bluff, turn it back on.”

“Okay.”

“Or a double-bluff.” Rogers’ head upped its internal buzzing volume. “Off.”

Findley shrugged and touched it off again.

Julia pointed at a display indicator. “What’s that HHS you mentioned?”

“Nothing. Just the Heading Hold Selector.”

Rogers nodded too fast for his headache. “It’s lit green, so it was on when I turned the plane and it made it come back.”

“Could be. Shall I turn it off?”

“Yes, or should it be no? Damn you, Findley. Listen, if you want your folks to come through this, you’d better behave yourself.”

“All right. Let us suppose I successfully turn us round, and then things go wrong again. If I have to make adjustments and we are not going in the right direction, you have to understand, yes?”

Rogers knuckled his own head. “I believe you can fly this plane back to America, so no tricks, Findley. Now the autopilot is off and that switch keeping the heading on hold is off, so make the turn.”

“I see we are heading eighty-three,” said Findley, keeping as calm as a pilot could be with his family held hostage.

Rogers said, “That’s eighty-three east so we need eighty-three west.”

“Stupid,” Julia said. “It’s...seventeen west, no, it’s...”

“You are thinking of two-six-three if you want to head in the exact opposite direction of where we are going now. But not necessarily if you want to head for LaGuardia.”

“I get it, wind direction differences?” said Rogers. “It doesn’t matter which airport as long as it’s American.”

“Well that’s no help, dummy,” Julia said. “The plane can’t just head west for America, it needs to know exactly which airport.”

“She’s right,” added Findley, glancing up at both. “Boston’s Logan Airport is probably the closest US airport that can handle this plane.”

“Go there then. How do we find out the direction?” Rogers hated having to rely on others.

“This button activates the enATIS HUD.”

“Whoa, what the hell is all that about? I don’t trust–”

“It is the enhanced Automatic Terminal Information Service, and we’ll see it on the head-up display, see? Now, if I punch in BOS, which is Logan Airport’s international call sign, the Dreamliner will not only head for it but will make all the necessary adjustments and even land the plane for us.”

“Well, do it,” Rogers said.

“Hang on.” Julia said. Rogers noticed her forehead freckles disappearing into creases. “He’s done this all too easy. I bet although the plane could land us there, we would be shot out the sky before we reached the coastline. They’ve already done it twice to planes they weren’t sure of.”

“May I make another suggestion?” Findley said.

Rogers gritted his teeth. “What now?”

“How about I ask permission to turn. That way it raises no suspicion.”

“Surely they’d need a damn good reason.”

Julia joined in, “How about mechanical failure?”

Findley stayed quiet but Rogers noticed.

“Why wouldn’t that work, Findley?”

“Well...we are nearer airfields in front than behind us. We could declare a medical emergency for a passenger for whom his only hope is a US specialist.”

“Oh yes.” Rogers was relieved to hear the perfect solution.

Julia cuffed Findley over the back of the head. “They’d never fall for that. Too far-fetched, and you know they’d interpret it as evidence of something else wrong up here.”

“Yeah,” said Rogers, “let’s forget about telling them anything. Make the fucking turn.”

“All right, here we go.”

Findley punched in BOS on the enATIS. The plane made a gentle clockwise turn, compensating with extra throttle and semi-assist flap control to maintain altitude. Even Rogers was impressed.

980
MILES
AWAY
, Johnson, a bored USAF administrative clerk, peeved at having to do compulsory overtime, sat bolt upright. All Atlantic air-traffic had their transponders and other transmitting devices intercepted at Lajes Communications Centre in the Azores air base run together by the US and Portugal. Closer to Europe than America but as central to mid-Atlantic as you can find dry land. Time to scramble interceptors, if something nasty travelled in any direction over sea. Most aircraft had their several “black boxes” transmit data in real time; computers in Lajes picked it up, analysed it, and then either archived, acted, or slipped into watch-this-space. A few engineers and a select pilot-group were privy to the installation of covert cams with microphones dotted through new international planes. One such cam hid in the console panel above the windshield. The image of the Dreamliner’s captain being battered and the mutinous melee zipped to Lajes and brought Johnson to his feet.

Three events occurred simultaneously: the circus on the Dreamliner; a message from a European Immune Protection Group relaying information from the UK Government disallowing landing rights to any aircraft or shipping from North America unless they’ve passed their point of no return; and a radio message he could see being received on the plane.

“Heathrow to Dreamliner, flight VGE 223, your transponder is faulty. Over.”

Johnson called his commander.

“What is it?” The burly man finished off a croissant.

“This Dreamliner from the States, sir. Originally a sensor alerted me to the cockpit door being open for over twenty minutes. As you know, they have to keep it locked between every movement in and out, so it meant a problem. Then the cam showed fighting and a change of control. The passengers have taken over the cockpit and are turning the plane round. Heathrow are asking for details. Oh, and we’ve had a communiqué banning in-bound to the UK. sir.”

“Succinctly put, Johnson. I’ll buzz security at Heathrow.”

Johnson continued looking at the screen where Rogers, Julia, and Findley were locked in argument. Rogers in particular had the reddest complexion Johnson had seen on a monitor.

“S
EE
?
NOW
CAN
THEY
STOP
US
, F
INDLEY
? What can they do?” said Rogers to his conscripted pilot.

“There’s a lot of clever stuff on aircraft like this, Rogers. Even decades ago, planes didn’t really need anyone in the cockpit: it could all happen by computer, even remotely. I suppose, in extreme situations, they could take control of this plane and fly it wherever they want.”

“Even with us in the cockpit, trying to stop them?”

“Oh, I expect so. They can probably isolate the entire console in here. We’d just be passengers with a front-window view.”

Julia spoke up. “They haven’t though, have they? Look, we are still heading for Boston.”

“Yeah,” said Rogers. “With the transponder turned off, can they still locate us? Surely radar is too far away.”

“From the UK and North America, we are out of normal radar range. But they can find us with other methods if they’ve a mind to. Black boxes transmit data up to satellite relays; they don’t wait for a crash. Come to think about it, there was little point in turning off the transponder, they probably know we’ve turned. What do you want me to do?”