Chapter 3 - Shadows In The Cargo Hold
The control column shuddered violently in my hands as the aerodynamic forces of the descending 250-ton jet fought against the trim tabs. Without the autopilot stabilizing the nose, the aircraft had entered an aerodynamic slip, banking eight degrees to the starboard side.
I immediately disconnected the auto-throttle toggle, squeezed the yoke trigger, and rolled the heavy airliner back to wings-level. My left thumb flicked the electric trim switch upward, catching the nose before the rate of descent could exceed two thousand feet per minute.
"Easy, girl," I breathed into my mask. "I've flown birds twice as broken as you."
I reached up to the overhead communications panel, tapped the VHF 1 frequency switch, and selected the oceanic emergency guard frequency on 121.5.
"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday. Gander Center, Shanwick Oceanic, this is Global Air Flight 804 heavy. Transponder 7700. Squawking emergency."
Static hissed through my earpiece, punctuated by the crackle of distant solar radiation over the water. Then, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the noise:
"Flight 804 heavy, this is Shanwick Oceanic Control, radar contact lost at five-four north, three-zero west. We show you dropping out of your assigned block. State nature of your emergency."
"Both flight deck officers are incapacitated by suspected toxic chemical ingestion," I replied with clinical precision. "Autopilot is offline. Flight management computer is rejecting lateral navigation waypoints. I have commandeered the left seat. I am an unlicensed civilian with prior military heavy-airframe experience."
A three-second pause hung on the frequency—the sound of an entire oceanic control room freezing in place.
"Say again, 804... did you say the flight crew is incapacitated? Who is speaking?"
"My name is Warren Hayes. Former Major, United States Air Force 160th Special Operations Aviation. I need priority vectors to the nearest runway capable of taking a triple-seven. Gander, Reykjavik, or Shannon."
"Hold on, 804... Stand by..."
While Shanwick scrambled to alert search-and-rescue and clear transatlantic airspace, I glanced down at the Center Instrument Display (EICAS).
A line of amber warnings scrolled across the screen:
ELEC BUS 2 OFF
HYD SYS R PRESS LOW
CARGO DOOR SENSOR - AFT LOWER INTERMITTENT
My stomach tightened. Modern airliners don't suffer triple system failures simultaneously with the poisoning of their flight crew unless someone designed it that way. The coffee was meant to put the pilots to sleep. The computer anomalies were meant to keep the jet from finding its own way home.
Suddenly, the cockpit interphone chime dinged twice.
I tapped the overhead audio button. "Go."
It was Jillian. Her voice was shaking so hard she could barely pronounce the syllables. "Warren... Mr. Hayes... you need to know something. Two men from business class just got up from their seats. They walked past me toward the rear spiral stairs leading down to the crew rest area and lower avionics bay."
"Describe them," I snapped.
"Black jackets, tactical boots, shaved heads. One of them had a heavy canvas duffel bag. When I told them passengers weren't allowed near the lower service hatch, the taller one grabbed my wrist and showed me a suppressed sidearm under his windbreaker. He told me if I made a sound over the PA, he’d open the emergency exit over the wing."
Cold fury surged through my chest. This wasn't an ordinary terrorist hijacking for ideological leverage. Hijackers take the cockpit, broadcast demands, and seek publicity. These men had poisoned the pilots from the shadows and were now tampering with the aircraft's internal nerve center below the cabin floor.
In the underworld, there was only one reason to quietly ditch an international flight over three miles of abyssal ocean: an assassination disguised as an inexplicable aviation tragedy. Someone wanted a passenger on this plane erased from the earth without leaving a single trace of forensic evidence.
And then the cold truth crystallized in my mind.
They weren't trying to assassinate a random diplomat or Douglas Martinez.
They were here for me.
Three weeks ago, my syndicate had seized six million dollars in offshore bearer bonds from the Syndicate of the Iron Crescent—an Eastern European cartel that operated out of Hamburg and London. I had booked this flight under a clean alias, using a commercial economy seat specifically to remain invisible while moving Norah to our private estate in Surrey.
They didn't know Warren Hayes was a military pilot. They only knew Warren Hayes was in economy, trapped in an aluminum tube that was supposed to dive silently into the freezing Atlantic while they parachuted or slipped out after destroying the controls.
"Jillian," I spoke into the interphone, my tone deadly calm. "Listen to me very carefully. Where is my daughter?"
May you like
"She... she's still sleeping in 8B. I moved my jumpseat next to her. Nobody has touched her."
"Keep your eyes on her. I’m locking this cockpit from the inside. Whatever you hear through the deck floor... do not open that cabin door for anyone except me."
