Malaysia and Korea were worlds apart, but where their artificial caste systems were concerned they were hauntingly similar. Beyond that was the overt and covert oppression of the majority Muslims over the religious minorities in the region. It wasn’t always that way in Malaysia, but with the rise of Al Qaeda and the indifference of successive American and European administrations Muslim power and influence increased. Jaren said nothing. He went about his business sullen and silent.
Their checklists complete, the tug pushed the big jet back from the gate. Twenty-three minutes later the captain shoved the power up and the million pound machine lifted into the warm, moist air.
“Positive rate, gear up,” the captain ordered, easing the nose up to almost twenty degrees high. The landing gear whirred and clunked, folding itself in the fuselage. The aircraft accelerated quickly.
“Climb power,” he commanded. The first officer hit the switch which then lit up with a bright golden light.
“Engaged,” Jaren said mechanically.
“Flaps to one, flaps up!” Abdullereda called as he accelerated through the flap retraction schedule. “After takeoff checklist.”
“Gear off; flaps up, after takeoff checklist complete,”
Abdullereda reached up and pressed the center autopilot command switch. Unlike Western pilots he didn’t hand fly the airplane any longer than was necessary. Like most Third World pilots he was almost completely dependent on the automation of the jet.
They climbed out of three thousand feet, heading north over the island. The first officer switched from departure control to center. Center directed them, “Climb to and maintain flight level one-nine-zero.”
“Climb to and maintain flight level one-nine-zero,” Jaren parroted, confirming the cleared altitude of nineteen thousand feet. Passing six thousand feet he leaned forward and changed his altimeter setting to the standard high altitude setting of one-zero-one-three Hecto-Pascals, a common altimeter setting that ensured all aircraft in high altitude airspace were flying at the desired altitudes.
As he leaned back in his seat Abdullereda saw movement out of the corner of his right eye. His head snapped that direction to see Muhammad, who’d been standing behind Jaren and looking out of the window, suddenly grab the first officer from behind, cupping his left hand around the young man’s chin. Muhammad’s right hand disappeared behind Jaren’s head, but remerged holding something that flashed in the cockpit lights, something metal.
Jaren cried out in surprise at the unexpected assault, but his voice changed in an instant. He gave a short, sharp cry that changed into a horrible keening, gurgling wail. Muhammad’s right arm ripped back viciously. In answer, a fountain of blood splashed the first officer’s flight instruments. His white shirt turned a bright crimson. Jaren reached out instinctively for his neck, but then grappled for the flight controls, flailing wildly. The autopilot clicked off and the aircraft lurched to the left.
Abdullereda grabbed the stick, but the aircraft kept bucking to Jared’s spasmodic inputs. It wasn’t until he punched the override that Hussein could bring the big jet under control. The stricken first officer and father grew weaker, his eyes impossibly wide, his skin turning pallid. The dying first officer grabbed the throttles either by accident or instinct and pulled them back, perhaps a desperate desire to get back to the ground.
Muhammad wrapped his arms around the first officer’s torso, pinning them to his side. As Abdullereda shoved the throttles back up — his stomach heaving at the sensation of the warm, wet, slick blood of his first officer on the plastic handles — he stared dumbstruck at the young man.
He was no longer human. Jared was a marionette jerking and gasping. His white eyes vacuous, it was obvious that the young man’s brain was no longer processing information, it, like the rest of him, was slowly dying. The blood pumping out of his ripped throat completely covered his shirt and the terrorist’s arms, but it was coming out ever more slowly. Finally, with a gurgling rattle Jared slipped into unconsciousness and death.
“Allahu Akbar!” said Muhammad triumphantly.
Abdullereda felt sick.
“Quick! Inform the brothers! Get them up here!” he ordered.
Automatically Abdullereda cycled the “No Smoking” signs off and then on twice. A moment later there was a chime. The flight attendant was calling the cockpit.
“Answer it,” Muhammad told him, adding with a macabre laugh. “The first officer is busy going to Hell!”
Swallowing hard, Abdullereda answered the call. It was Suri. “Is everything all right up there? You didn’t mention any turbulence.”
“We hit someone’s wake,” the captain replied. Just like hitting the wake of another boat on a lake aircraft caused invisible waves in the air that could rock a following aircraft. The explanation apparently sufficed. Suri told him two other men wanted to come up into the cockpit. There was a note in her voice that asked for an explanation. This was unusual, but Suri was not about to question a flight officer and a male.
Whatever Jaren’s hesitancy due to the Asian caste system the gulf between men and women, both in Asian and especially Islamic culture, was much greater and fraught with more dire consequences.
“It’s all right, they are sent by the company, and talked to me about it earlier. I should have let you know. I’ll let them up,” he told her soothingly. He turned the door switch to “UNLKD.” An electronic switch clicked and the door opened. Two men tumbled in and quickly slammed the door shut behind them.
For a moment, the captain’s bearing returned to Abdullereda and he put the horrifying events behind him, but only for a moment. As soon as he got the autopilot back on and the aircraft back on its flight path he looked over to see the terrorists unceremoniously dragging Jaren’s body from the seat.
The young man’s dead eyes looked at him, damning him, or so he thought, and then they were gone. They dumped him in the back by the door, leaning his dead body against the doorframe. Jaren’s head slumped over his crimson chest like a disjointed doll.
Muhammad slid into the wet first officer’s seat and the other two terrorists strapped into the jump seats. They all donned their oxygen masks. Abdullereda followed suit. The Al Qaeda leader nodded to him and said sharply over the interphone, “Implement the plan!”
They continued out on the flight planned route. The flight plan called for them to cruise at thirty-three thousand feet. Hussein requested and was granted a higher altitude, and they levelled off at forty-one thousand feet. As the peninsula disappeared into the darkness the last Malaysian controller — unaware that the aircraft had been hijacked — said goodnight and passed on Malaysian flight 666 to Oceanic Control.
“Good night,” said Abdullereda, but instead of calling oceanic he turned off the transponder.
“Now they cannot see us correct?” asked Muhammad.
“No, their radars can only see us through what we call ‘skin paint.’ That means they have to see us by bouncing radar off the aircraft, but civilian radars aren’t designed to do that. They’re designed to ping us with radar which triggers our transponder to reply with position, airspeed and altitude.”
“Only you turned that off right?”
“Yes,” he assured them.
“Good, very good. Continue with the operation!”
A calmer Abdullereda selected “Route 2” on the FMC and executed it. The aircraft began a turn to the left, heading out from Malaysia and into open sea. He was in control now and that made him feel better. Abdullereda took a deep breath, reached up and turned the Cabin Altitude switch clockwise to manual.
“Go ahead, we are on Oxygen; we are ready,” Muhammad told him, nodding. His wild eyes and bloody clothes were made more macabre by the proboscis of the Oxygen mask. He looked surreal and terrifying.