Read an Excerpt
The Last Flight
By Cydney Marshall Balboa Press
Copyright © 2015 Cydney Marshall
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5043-4507-1
CHAPTER 1
MANILA, PHILIPPINES
The heavy glass doors slid open, and the pilot and first officer for AmerAsia flight 56 stepped inside from the steamy night.
Captain Darius Jardine surveyed the Manila flight terminal, which was bustling despite the late hour. Gradually the sounds coalesced into a familiar din as people called out to loved ones, hugged, and hustled toward their gates or through the front doors, heading for home or a new adventure. Over the intercom, a woman's robotically-soothing voice announced a series of late-night flight departures. In his over a decade as an airline pilot, Jardine had been in thousands of airport terminals, and the Manila airport didn't feel much different than the ones in Cincinnati or London or Beijing.
Jardine rolled his black bag over the sky-blue terminal carpet until he reached the international security checkpoint. He made brief eye contact as the security man glanced over his credentials.
"Captain Jardine," the security man said, "you have a nice flight, sir."
Jardine flashed a smile and moved on through the checkpoint. He paused to wait for his copilot, James Henderson, who was trailing behind. Tall and thin, Henderson stood stiffly as the security officer gave him the once-over, then returned his papers.
An orange-haired policewoman, part of a security group loafing nearby, laughed thunderously at something a co-worker said, then mouthed, "Good morning," to the pilots as they passed through the checkpoint.
"Look at her," Jardine whispered to Henderson. "Homeland Security is recruiting from clown schools."
Jardine grinned and cast his arm across Henderson's shoulders. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"
Henderson didn't respond. He just peered blankly ahead. Jardine shrugged and headed towards the gate, his wide strides drawing attention of everyone on the concourse. Henderson fell into step behind him.
At the moment, Henderson was wound tight. So was Jardine, but he didn't show it. He tipped his chin high in the air. Passengers congregated in groups, checked the time on their phones, glanced up at the big flight board, huddled around a bar television set. Jardine ignored all the riff -raff , the pain-in-the-ass, demanding passengers he ferried around every day. Commercial airline pilots were glorified bus drivers in the sky, nothing more, hauling around the great unwashed. At gate D-14, Jardine saw it through the window.
A wide-body Boeing 777. Possibly the most reliable machine on earth.
Flight 56.
His flight.
An odd feeling coursed through his body. He forced it back to wherever it had come from. He and Henderson strode through the passengers who'd already congregated in the waiting area. Near the ramp that led to the aircraft, a voice spoke up.
"Excuse me, sir?"
It was a woman's voice. Jardine turned and saw a young mother in a long, floral dress and an easy smile. Her towhead son, who looked to be about four, clutched her hand. The boy was on the brink of tears, staring down at a blood-red teddy bear at Jardine's feet.
"My son has always been fascinated with pilots," said the mother.
"Indeed," said Jardine. He crouched down. "It's the best job in the world, and I get to do it every single day."
"Is it dangerous?" asked the boy.
Jardine grinned. "Of course not. Airplanes are the safest form of travel."
Jardine chucked the kid lightly on the chin and unleashed a giant megawatt smile. The boy hid shyly behind his mother's legs, clutching his teddy bear.
"Do you have any children of your own?" the mother asked.
"No," said Jardine, "but my copilot does. Right, Henderson?"
Henderson looked as though something enormous were straining to jump out of his body. "I have a daughter," he said. He crouched down and pulled a pair of plastic wings from his coat pocket. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. His eyes were fixed on the distant horizon.
"Hey," said Jardine, "don't tease the boy." He took the wings from Henderson's hands and handed them to the child. "There. Just like we pilots wear."
The boy stared at the plastic pin, then his eyes moved up to Jardine. Suddenly shy, he hid behind his mother's legs.
Jardine stood up and flashed his practiced, lady-killer smile, the one that led fawning women to tell him that he seemed straight out of an airline commercial. "I hope you enjoy the flight, ma'am."
The mother beamed as she took her son into her arms.
Jardine headed down the narrow jet bridge, Henderson following behind him.
"You've got to get yourself together," said Jardine. "I'm depending on you here."
Inside the aircraft, the cabin crew gathered near the flight deck to go over their flight details.
Lead flight attendant Scottlyn McGraw had flown with many of them, and they needed little coaching. Mostly, they spent the time getting caught up on family, dating, and life in general. Scottlyn was glad to see three veteran attendants that she knew well had been assigned to the flight. Justice Barnes was a serious, pouting young African American who was attending Harvard online as he worked. Barbara Davis, in her late thirties, had been a flight attendant for over a decade. Hank Townsend, openly gay and ever-helpful, planned a career in IT.
Scottlyn wrapped up. "Let's make it a great flight."
The attendants completed their final pre-flight duties: inventorying provisions and pre-flighting the first aid kit, checking overhead compartments to make sure nothing had been left by previous passengers, and organizing the folded blankets, small pillows, and headsets that might be requested by passengers during the flight. Scottlyn prided herself on doing everything she could to make sure every AmerAsia flight she worked went smoothly and reached its destination with happy, contented passengers.
Flight 56, nonstop to Los Angeles, would be no different.
CHAPTER 2
Jardine and Henderson settled themselves in the flight deck, running through the pre-flight check.
They'd done this thousands of times.
From the flight deck, air traffic control came over the radio, giving the pilots their clearance, their flight path to Los Angeles, and the runway from which they would take off .
Darius Jardine entered the flight coordinates into the computer as Henderson, muttering under his breath, ran through final system checks. Outside, the ground crew was moving various hoses and equipment back away from the jet. The tug vehicle was already hooked up and ready to push the Triple-7 back from the gate.
A blast of cold air hit them in the face. The airplane's air-conditioning system had just kicked on. "Freeze our balls off in here," Jardine said, scanning his electronic clipboard.
"I don't mind it," Henderson said.
"I bet you don't."
Jardine noticed that Henderson had stopped the pre-flight routine.
His eyes were glassy and his lips were pinched tightly into a small O.
The co-pilot looked up. "Why even bother with this?" he said. "Why bother with any of this?"
Jardine wagged a finger and pointed to the panel, behind which sat the black box.
"Cheer up, buddy," said Jardine. "You don't have to be so jealous of my superiority. I'll let you take the stick one of these days."
He grinned. Henderson just stared at him, his face ashen. He didn't seem to be in the mood for flight deck banter.
"I'm all right."
"Are you sure?"
"I said I'm all right." Henderson mopped his brow with the back of his hand.
"Were you this squirrely when you were dropping bombs on ragheads? 'Cause I wouldn't have wanted to be in your squadron."
"That was different, man."
"How?"
"The ragheads did something wrong."
The door behind them opened, and Scottlyn McGraw entered the flight deck. "You guys need anything?" The fragrance of her perfume wafted in with her voice.
"It's all good," Jardine told her. "How about in back? The passengers treating you like their personal chamber maid?"
"Of course." Scottlyn laughed and placed a hand softly on his shoulder.
That was no surprise. Scottlyn had always doted on Jardine, openly flirting with him on previous flights. He turned for a look at her, caught a lingering glance of her ample figure, every curve on display in a custom-tailored uniform.
"Darius," she said, "we have diplomats from the United States and Britain on board."
Jardine and Henderson exchanged glances.
"Really?" Jardine said.
Scottlyn nodded. "They've just been to a United Nations International Peace Conference in Manila. How exciting."
"That's one way to put it," Henderson said.
Scottlyn glanced at him. "Are we having a bad day?"
Henderson remained silent.
She leaned forward and grabbed Darius's empty coffee cup, her breasts gently brushing his arm.
Jardine looked at his arm, and then her chest. His face betrayed a touch of regret. Then he cleared his throat and said, "Let's get this show on the road, eh?"
Scottlyn straightened up, brushing off her skirt. "The cabin's ready." Before closing the door, she turned back and said, "What are you doing when we get in?"
Jardine knew she was talking to him. He shrugged. "I'm open to suggestions," he said.
"Let's have some fun, then," she said.
"You got it," Jardine said, working some enthusiasm into his voice.
After the flight deck door closed, Henderson said, "What are you doing flirting with that woman?"
"What does it matter?"
Henderson shrugged, a quick twitch of his narrow shoulders. "I'm just saying."
"You can't be like this right now," Jardine said. "Do you hear me? I need you with me, more than ever. Is that clear?"
"Yes."
"Can you handle this or not?"
Henderson drew a long, steadying breath. "Yeah."
Jardine tipped his chin up as his hands made a few adjustments to the altimeter. "Tell me why are you here."
"On this flight?"
"Yes. For who?"
Henderson tightened up again. "For my daughter."
"That's right. You're doing all this for her. So young, so innocent. With a vibrant future ahead of her."
The words cut deep. Henderson grew visibly sadder. "It makes me sad to see her suffer."
"But you believe your daughter can beat this thing."
"Yes."
"Then let's make it happen."
The co-pilot dropped his chin into his chest, exhaled once, and shut his eyes. He appeared dead.
Then Henderson lifted his face and opened his eyes. An odd new look was in his eye. He carried the air of someone preparing to accomplish something truly enormous.
Henderson spoke into his mic. "We're ready for taxi."
CHAPTER 3
The tug started pushing the aircraft backwards away from the gate.
The radio came to life with a voice from the air traffic control tower. "AmerAsia Flight fifty-six. You are cleared for taxi."
"Roger that," Henderson said.
Jardine checked his seat belt and smiled. "It's a simple matter of execution, Henderson."
"Right. Very simple." Henderson sounded almost as though he believed what he was saying.
It was a beautiful, clear night as AmerAsia flight 56 taxied out to the end of the runway. Air traffic control radioed, "AmerAsia flight fifty-six, you are cleared for takeoff ."
The whine of the engines reached a steady pitch as the pilots prepared for departure. Then the brakes released, and the Triple-7 accelerated down the runway until the behemoth aircraft lurched into the air.
Jardine said evenly, "Flaps up, gear up. Auto pilot?"
Henderson punched in a code. The screen beeped.
"Engaged," he said.
When they reached cruising altitude and the seat belt light went off , Scottlyn and the other flight attendants released themselves from their jump seats and started preparing their first beverage service. Many of the 247 passengers had already dozed off . Those awake quietly stared at a movie or read a book or watched the lights below disappear behind them. Los Angeles was fifteen hours away, and they settled in for the long haul.
As Scottlyn walked the aisles, she took note of several passengers who might require special attention: a young, high-strung mother with two young twin daughters; an elderly, fragile-looking African American couple holding hands; a mother whose child clutched a blood-red teddy bear and wore a small pin that, Scottlyn realized, were children's pilot wings. A towering young man, his arms sleeved with dark tattoos, stood up and peeled off his windbreaker. A muscle-bound woman, her electric-red hair piled high on her head, asked for a blanket. Scottlyn nodded and smiled and retrieved one from an overhead compartment.
Scottlyn also smiled at the hulking man in the seat next to the redhaired woman. He wore a cheery, floral-print shirt, but he only shot her a surly glance and went back to his iPad.
An hour into the flight, a tone sounded in Jardine's headset. Scottlyn McGraw was calling via the interphone.
"How's it going back there?" he said.
"Everything's good," she said. "Service is finished. Do you need anything up there?"
"Nah, we're good," Jardine said.
"It's a little cold," Scottlyn said. "Can you kick up the temp a couple degrees?"
"You bet."
Jardine ended the connection. Henderson watched him manually increase the temperature in the cabin.
Henderson swallowed. "How considerate."
"Always," said Jardine. He glanced at the ship clock on the console in front of him.
"Henderson," he said, "I believe we've reached the appropriate hour. Do you?"
"I do."
"Are you ready?"
Henderson drew in a deep breath, then nodded.
Jardine took the controls away from the autopilot. He pulled back on the stick, and the airplane gradually began to ascend.
They reached into the side consoles and donned their supplemental oxygen masks. The cabin was beginning a slow decompression.
As they were approaching the air traffic controller handoff , Jardine glanced over at his copilot. Sweat poured down Henderson's face. The voice of an air traffic controller came over the radio. "AmerAsia fifty-six, contact Vietnam Center on one-two-five point zero-zero."
Jardine triggered his mic and said, "One-two-five point zero-zero. AmerAsia fifty-six. Have a great night."
"Roger that."
The communication ended. Jardine whipped off his headset and looked at Henderson. The copilot looked back at him with scared eyes.
"You or me?"
Henderson swallowed. "Let's do it together."
"Really, are you kidding me, man."
"This way we don't know."
Jardine blew frustrated air from his mouth. "Fine. One finger each."
The two men both pointed index fingers at a switch on the control panel. Then Henderson pulled his back.
"I ... I just can't."
"Fine," said Jardine, "I'll do it, but you will need to pull the circuit breaker to disable the ACARs."
Then Jardine pushed in the switch with a little more force than necessary. It depressed.
Jardine leaned back and folded his arms. "Tell me, Henderson, what we just did."
"We just disengaged the aircraft's transponder and ACARS satellite communication system."
Jardine nodded. "We've just become a ghost flight."
CHAPTER 4
Scottlyn was in her jump seat just outside the flight deck, wondering why the aircraft had climbed from its prescribed 35,000 feet.
Then the oxygen masks suddenly dropped from the ceiling. She stared at the dangling yellow masks for a heartbeat, stunned into paralysis. On hundreds of flights, she had demonstrated to passengers how to use the oxygen masks, but until now she had never seen them deployed.
She became aware of shouts of uncertainty among the passengers, quickly mounting to shrieks of concern.
"Masks on!" she shouted, her order echoed by Justice and the other flight attendants. Scottlyn grabbed her own supplemental oxygen mask, one not tethered to the aircraft, one delivering oxygen from an attached canister that could keep her breathing for nearly three times longer than the passengers, whose masks would keep them alive for just thirteen minutes.
Most passengers grabbed for the masks, but a handful hesitated, seeming confused.
"Put your masks on!" Scottlyn shouted again, before donning her own and moving her eyes down along the rows of passengers. Some rows back, the elderly African American couple calmly put their masks on. "Do you think we're in trouble?" Scottlyn heard the frail woman ask her husband.
"Nah," the man said with a dismissive wave. "Just depressurization. Probably a valve or something."
She nodded and smiled.
"Life's an adventure," he said. Then he started gasping. He tried to speak, then slumped back in his seat, his eyes wide open.
"Howard?" the woman said, and she peeled off her own mask before slowly falling unconscious into his lap.
For a moment, Scottlyn was frozen with fear. Training was one thing; this was happening now. She stared at the elderly couple. They had gone so quickly.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Last Flight by Cydney Marshall. Copyright © 2015 Cydney Marshall. Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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