Chapter 4 - Cabin Pressure Dropping
Before Jillian could respond, the master warning klaxon screamed into my headset.
DING-DING-DING!
A bright red banner flashed across the primary display: CABIN ALTITUDE EXCEEDANCE - 14,000 FT.
Through the cockpit security monitor, I watched the overhead oxygen masks tumble from the ceiling of the main passenger cabin in a synchronized cascade of yellow plastic cups. Instant chaos erupted behind the bulkhead. Screams muffled by engine noise penetrated the soundproof barrier. Passengers shrieked in terror as the cabin depressurized, the thin, icy air rushing through the outflow valves at hurricane speed.
Someone in the lower avionics bay had manually opened the outflow pressure equalization gate.
The temperature in the cockpit began to plummet. Frost formed on the edges of the thick windshield glass. If the cabin altitude passed eighteen thousand feet, hypoxia would knock out every unmasked passenger within three minutes, turning the cabin into a graveyard.
I slammed both thrust levers forward, dialed the target altitude down on the Mode Control Panel, and pulled the speedbrake lever all the way back to the FLIGHT DETENT.
The massive aircraft groaned under the structural load. The spoilers rose along the wings, dumping lift, and Flight 804 tipped violently forward into an aggressive, emergency descent.
Outside, the Atlantic ocean tilted upward into view through the dark cloud deck. We were dropping out of the sky at nearly five thousand feet per minute.
Over the intercom, Douglas Martinez's frantic voice could be heard screaming through the open galley curtain: "WE'RE GOING DOWN! HE'S CRASHING THE PLANE! THAT GUY IN THE HOODIE IS KILLING US ALL!"
"Shanwick, Hayes on 804," I spoke into the microphone, my hands fighting the violent airframe vibration as we sliced through the upper layers of the storm cloud. "Emergency descent to ten thousand feet due to rapid decompression. Sabotage confirmed in lower avionics compartment. Advise Shannon approach we will require armed tactical response upon arrival."
"Flight 804, Shannon radar is tracking your descent. squawk identical. We have cleared all airspace below you down to flight level one-zero-zero. Wind at Shannon is two-seven-zero at thirty-five knots, gusting fifty. Heavy rain, visibility one mile."
"Understood Shannon. Stand by."
As the altimeter wound down through twelve thousand feet, the air became thick enough to sustain consciousness. I leveled the wings at ten thousand feet, pushed the throttles forward to stabilize our airspeed at 280 knots, and retracted the speedbrakes.
The heavy aircraft settled into the dense, turbulent air just above the dark swells of the ocean.
Suddenly, the cockpit floor beneath my feet shuddered.
A dull metallic thud resonated from the lower electronics equipment (EE) bay directly beneath the cockpit pedestal. Then came the unmistakable sound of a circular power tool grinding through hydraulic conduit armor.
Those bastards weren't just tampering with the pressurization. They were severing the secondary backup flight-control cables running to the elevator and rudder. If they cut those stainless steel lines, the fly-by-wire computer would lose physical authority over the tail surfaces, and the jet would become a lawn dart, uncontrollable even with full throttle.
I looked at First Officer Marcus Cole, who was still slumped on the floor, breathing pure oxygen from the bottle. He was conscious now, his eyelids fluttering.
"Marcus," I said firmly, leaning down and slapping his shoulder. "Can you hear me?"
Marcus blinked, coughing violently against his mask. "Y-yes... my chest... burning..."
"Look at the primary flight display. We are level at ten thousand feet on heading zero-eight-five. Autopilot is fried, but the autothrottle is holding speed. Can you put your hands on this wheel and hold her wings-level for four minutes?"
Marcus looked at the massive instrument panel, fear warring with professional duty in his glazed eyes. He gritted his teeth, reached up with trembling arms, and gripped the co-pilot's yoke. "I... I can hold level flight, sir. Just keep the wings on the horizon bar."
"Good man," I said.
I unbuckled my shoulder straps, stood up, and slipped out of my oversized hoodie.
Beneath the cheap cotton, my body was covered in old scar tissue—bullet wounds, shrapnel marks, and the dark dragon-and-iron-cross tattoo across my shoulder blades that marked me as the untouchable head of the Hayes syndicate. From my ankle holster, I drew a flat, carbon-fiber tactical blade with a serrated edge—the only weapon that could pass undetected through an airport x-ray.
I pulled the cockpit door release, stepped back out into the forward galley, and pulled the door shut behind me.
Jillian was kneeling in the aisle next to seat 8B. Norah had her oxygen mask strapped over her small nose, tears streaming down her pale cheeks as she clutched Mr. Bear to her chest.
When Norah saw me, her eyes filled with desperate hope. "Daddy? Are we falling?"
I crouched down, smiled my warmest, gentlest smile, and smoothed her tangled brown hair. "No, baby. Daddy told you I used to fly, remember? We just hit a little bump. I'm taking care of it."
"Promise?" she whispered.
"On my life, Norah. Close your eyes and hold Mr. Bear tight. I'll be right back."
May you like
I stood up, turned around, and looked toward the access hatch in the floor of the first-class galley.
The hatch was open. And from the darkness below, the smell of burning copper was rising fast.
