Sousa dosed me. Why the hell did he do that?
The obvious answer, namely that there was a conspiracy to hide the truth about Flight 815’s fate and that Sousa was part of it would have made perfect sense if not for the fact that, up until the moment he felt the needle prick his skin, Professor had been prepared to accept the ATSB investigator’s explanation for the disappearance of Flight 815.
“What the hell…?” He sat up, winced as a wave of nausea rolled over him, and then looked around for something to help orient himself. There was nothing familiar at all about his surroundings.
He was in a windowless cube that might have been either a low-rent no-tell motel room or a jail cell — odds favored the latter. His head cleared after a few seconds and he took a chance on standing up. He steadied himself with one hand outstretched to the wall, and when he was sure that his legs would hold him up, he began walking toward the door. He expected the door to be locked, but to his surprise, the doorknob turned and the door swung open without any resistance. He winced as bright sunlight flooded into the dim room, stinging his eyes for a moment. The world was a blur of green, which eventually resolved into a stand of evergreen trees.
Pine trees, but despite his comprehensive knowledge of minutia which included being able to recognize most plants on site, he couldn’t place the exact species. The air, which was cool and dry, offered no clue whatsoever as to where on earth he might be. He took a step through the door and turned a slow circle.
He was standing in front of a small plywood structure that reminded him of the backyard shed where his father had kept his tools. The structure appeared to have been built on the ground, without any sort of foundation. The cabin was not especially remarkable. What was remarkable however, was the fact that it was not the only one of its kind. In every direction, stretching all the way to the trees, lined up like soldiers in a formation, were dozens more just like it.
“Toto, I don’t think we’re in Oz anymore,” he muttered.
“Good morning, neighbor.”
Professor whirled in the direction of the voice, which brought on another attack of vertigo that sent him reeling. He leaned against the plywood wall of the cabin, closing his eyes to keep the world from spinning.
“Hey, take it easy.” It was the same voice, a woman’s, speaking English with a faint Australian accent, but closer than before.
He opened his eyes and saw her approaching from the cabin to his right. She was tall and slim, with an olive complexion and straight black hair pulled back in a pragmatic pony tail. But for her accent, Professor would have guessed that she was Hispanic. She wore dark blue trousers and a white shirt with black epaulets crossed by three gold lines.
“That stuff they give you packs a fair wallop,” the woman said as she reached him. She allowed her hand to rest lightly on his shoulder. “I chundered for an hour straight when I woke up.”
“Woke up?” He gave her another look. “They drugged you, too?”
Her eyebrow shot up. “You’re a yank?’
“That’s right.” He stared back at her for a moment. “Who are you? And where am I?”
She returned the searching look for several long seconds, as if trying to decide whether to trust him with those answers. “Where, as near as I can reckon, is forty degrees north, and somewhere between one-twenty and one-thirty degrees east. It’s a lot harder to judge longitude without instruments.”
Professor blinked at her, too surprised by the fact that the woman had answered him with navigational coordinates to even think about the location those coordinates represented. Things stared clicking together. The uniform…navigation by dead-reckoning… mention of instruments….
“You’re a pilot.” Another click. “You’re from Flight 815. First officer…” He searched his memory. “Carrera? Oh my God. You’re alive.”
Despite everything else that had happened, Professor felt emotion welling up into his throat. He looked past the woman and saw that a small knot of people had gathered to watch the exchange.
“What happened to you?” He straightened, pushing off the wall, ignoring the resulting head rush. “You said you were drugged. Did someone hijack your plane?”
Click.
“Forty north… A hundred and twenty…” His breath caught in his throat. He glanced up at the midday sun but without any other way to orient himself, it was impossible to immediately confirm what she had just said. “North Korea?”
“Take it down a peg, friend.” The woman threw a nervous glance in the direction of the growing crowd, “That lot doesn’t know the map as well as you. I haven’t told them where we are… or where I think we are, anyway.”
“But you are First Officer Carrera? And those are the passengers?”
Carrera nodded. “Some of them. There’s forty-seven of us here. I don’t know about the rest.”
“What happened? Were you forced to fly here?” Professor’s mind was whirring like a computer hard drive. There was no way the plane could have made it all the way to North Korea without someone picking it up on radar or catching a transponder ping. That was why the conspiracy needed a highly placed asset like Sousa, to hide or falsify any data that might reveal what had really happened. He wondered how many others were involved in the cover-up.
Carrera shook her head. “No. I was drugged. Just like you. Woke up here. I don’t know where the plane is.”
“And you’ve been here the whole time? Three weeks?”
She let out a heavy sigh. “Three bloody weeks. I take it everyone thinks we’re dead?”
Her despondent tone finally dampened Professor’s excitement over the discovery. Not only had he learned the fate of the aircraft, but it seemed he would share it. “Who’s behind all this?” he asked in a more subdued tone. “Is it the North Koreans?”
Carrera pursed her lips for a moment. “Don’t think I caught your name, friend.”
“Pete. But everyone calls me ‘Professor.’”
“Seriously?” She shook her head, then pointed to the cabin adjoining the one he had awakened in. “Let’s talk in there. These people are still my responsibility and I’d rather not start a panic.”
The exterior of Carrera’s cabin was almost identical to his own, but in the short time she had occupied it, the flight officer had managed to personalize her space with cardboard boxes serving as makeshift tables, and soft drink cans repurposed as flower vases and drinking cups.
“Sorry,” she said as she caught him checking out the décor. “Haven’t figured out how to make furniture yet. Robinson Crusoe I’m not.” She motioned to an open box beside the bed which contained several parcels wrapped in brown plastic that Professor immediately recognized as military rations — MREs — though not the same brand used by the United States military. “Hungry?”
He picked up one of the prepackaged meals just long enough to verify that the label was printed in English. “Maybe later. This is what they’re feeding you?”
“Whatever else they’ve got planned for us, they aren’t going to let us starve.” She folded her arms across her chest. “So what’s your story, Pete? Why are you here?”
“I could ask you the same thing.” He realized that a confrontational tone was not going to win him any points, so he quickly added. “I came down here…to Sydney, I mean… to help with the search.”
He had no difficulty at all recounting the conversation with Sousa. It seemed like it had happened only a few minutes before, but as he replayed it in his head, he struggled to find some precursor to Sousa’s attack. Even with the benefit of hindsight, he could see no hint of treachery.