BigBubblehead
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2014
- Posts
- 287
"Diverted"
Note:
Please see the bottom of this post
for information about the role play
and/or joining it.
The QANTAS Airbus-380 pulled away from the terminal in Sydney at only one-third capacity. Captain Gregory Hume knew that the Suits at the Main Office would have gone ape shit to find that the flight hadn't been cancelled. The airline could have given the 180 passengers half fares -- even free fares -- on the under-booked flight leaving in just six hours and still saved money.
Hume glanced about the cockpit, at the expensive hardware and veteran flight crew members working with him and thought, A little jet fuel will be the least of their worries in a few hours.
Four hours into the flight, the Navigator rose to stretch his legs. He glanced knowingly to his pilot, who nodded inconspicuously, then pulled a syringe from his travel bag and sunk the needle into the Co-Pilot's neck. The man jerked and instinctively reached to grasp the arm wrapping around his body, securing him. But the struggle was short: seconds later, he was dead.
Quickly, Hume and his Navigator initiated their plan. They'd been practicing it for the better part of eight weeks with the help of an Airbus simulator that the Airline thought was in a Sydney warehouse awaiting parts. Others had been involved in the plan, too, but compartmentalization meant that Hume and his partner knew nothing of them.
They'd never met the maintenance man who'd installed a device in the landing gear compartment, a device that -- when the Navigator now dropped the gear -- was ejected, falling to the ocean below where it would fake the black box signals of the Airbus.
They'd never met the software technician who'd installed new programs that would kill the real black boxes, send fake signals of an explosion and decompression, and then kill the communications systems themselves.
They'd never met the air systems vendor who'd replaced one of the emergency oxygen tanks with one containing a new, less lethal form of fentanyl anesthetic. The odorless, tasteless gas began filling the passenger compartment with the flip of a switch once Hume and the Navigator had donned their personal oxygen breathing devices.
And they'd never met the many people involved in restoration of the Cold War era landing strip on an up-until-now abandoned island to the east, which they banked the jet toward once they'd finished faking the craft's demise.
"Let's take a look," Hume said, unlocking a small locker at his feet and removing the small semi-automatic pistol that was now part of every Qantas jet's mandatory equipment. "They should be out by now."
They found exactly what they'd expected: 180 passengers and 12 Flight Attendants passed out, in their seats, on the floors, in the bathrooms. One pair was even partially naked in the upper deck bathroom, incapacitated during their attempt to join the Mile High Club.
"Go get'em," Hume commanded, continuing his walk about the cabin, checking to ensure that the gas had affected everyone sufficiently.
The Navigator returned with a bag full of zip ties -- hidden in a locker by yet another unknown conspirator -- and they set about laying each of the passengers and crew members face down and securing their hands and ankles. It seemed to take forever, and yet when they'd finished, they still had two hours before they had to begin their decent.
"I'm glad we didn't need that," the Navigator said through his mask, glancing at the gun in Hume's hands as the pair returned to the cockpit. "Not too fond of blood."
"Me neither," Hume said, stopping to retrieve a bottle of water from a cart before turning back to his fellow conspirator to pump one round into his chest. The Navigator jerked, then wobbled, but didn't go down. Hume grimaced a bit, raised his aim, and put a second round through the man's forehead. The blood splatter sprayed all about, including upon Hume. As he watched the man fall to the carpeted deck, he grimaced yet again, saying with an accusing tone, "Now, see what you did?"
Hume guided the huge jet down with what was likely the most professional landing of his life, particularly considering the narrowness of the runway, the rough nature of its surface, and a wicked cross wind that at one point had the port wing trimming fronds from the nearest trees. When the Airbus came to a stop, he was looking out upon the open Pacific, just fifty yards ahead of the huge craft's nose. His heart was pounding ferociously and he was drenched in sweat.
He returned to the passenger compartment, checked for movement -- of which there was none -- and used the emergency procedure to force open the forward door just as a vehicle mounted stairway approached and made contact with the fuselage.
"Are we secure?" the man at the top of the ladder asked through his own oxygen mask. When Hume nodded, six others hurried inside and spread about the craft's interior, wasting no time in lifting the unconscious passengers and hurrying them out the door. The lead man watched for a moment, then smiled to Hume. "You did good."
"Thank you, brother," Hume said. He watched the others for a moment, then began, "My plane and money are waiting I--"
He never finished, the bullet passing through his brain ending his life even more quickly than those that had already been taken.
Marcus holstered the small pistol, looking down at the no-longer-needed conspirator, and said, "Sorry, brother."
(OOC: I am currently writing the second post that will allow other writers to join.)
Last edited: