Chapter 41 Flyover

After stopping for fuel in Goose Bay, Canada, the Gulfstream 500 crested high above a restless Atlantic Ocean, leaving behind a trail of vapor against the blackened canvas of nightfall.

Most passengers had succumbed to sleep, their bodies sprawled across leather seats in the dimly lit cabin on this 27-hour flight to California.

Petrov and Gulag snored softly behind protective eye masks. Across the way, Uncle sat hunched over a coffee table.

Numerous papers and files were spread out before him, each page bearing the weight of reports and summaries destined for the eyes of President Wang.

Uncle set down his work and approached Asp. Even in the confines of a plane, Asp's constant vigilance never wavered.

He kept watch near the curtained window, his posture rigid, a loaded weapon held in a trusted grip.

A twinge of recognition pricked at Asp, cocking his head just enough to see Uncle walking deliberately towards him.

"Asp, a word, if you please," Uncle requested with an unmistakable tension drawn into the lines across his face.

"Something on your mind, Uncle? I have noticed you watching me!"

"Yes actually. But leave your weapon!"

"Hold this for a while, Dante," Asp said, flinging his machine gun.

With the precision of a seasoned operative, Dante caught it in mid-air. The Bloodies, ever vigilant, rested with one eye open.

Asp navigated past the semi-conscious forms of Petrov and Gulag, settling into the chair across from Uncle.

Enclosed by the amber-tinted beams of lamplight, Uncle's suspicious expression crystallized before Asp like a silent challenge.

"Uncle, I know you are a man of few words, so let's cut straight to the chase."

"Lo Chen's loyalty to me and President Wang was without question, yet he vanished without a trace."

“What exactly are you asking?”

“Can you explain why Grey and Robinson journeyed across the North Sea to meet you? Was it perhaps at your invitation?”

Asp paused, studying the gravity of Uncle's almost accusatory tone, before responding carefully.

"I'm afraid I only have one definitive answer. Only that Grey and Robinson came to the submarine docks."

"What did they want?"

"They came seeking our employment to kill Gulag."

"What happened then?"

"Lo Chen's death was merely a side effect, Uncle."

"You don't come into a house full of hungry panthers and try to steal our kill."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of Uncle tapping his pen against the page filled the silence.

"Did you not think to inform us that Grey and Robinson were coming to meet you before I sent out one of my agents?"

"We dealt with them in-house. That is all you need to know," Asp said.

"Is there anything else you're looking for, Uncle? Please feel free to ask. I'd rather we clear things up now than risk any unfortunate misunderstandings between us down the road."

"I'll file that in my report for President Wang, For now."

"You go and do that, Uncle."

"Asp!"

"Yes?"

"For future reference, please be advised that we operate with a degree of professional curiosity in the Federation."

Uncle listened to Gulag's monotonous snoring, as he had done for most of the journey.

"Don't make the mistake of following Gulag's way of doing things."

Asp was already out of his seat giving Uncle very little respect.

"I'll bear that in mind."

Uncle clicked his biro and began shuffling through the reports.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a lot of paperwork to catch up on."

The gentle rocking of the plane was barely noticeable at first, akin to the subtle swaying of a hammock on a calm summer's day.

Uncle continued to file his report. A couple of air hostesses were lost in their books, while the off-shift ones slept soundly, lulled by the drone of the engines.

But then the rocking became more pronounced, the plane dipping and swaying like a ship on a rolling sea.

Just then, the pilot's voice came over the speaker.

"Folks, we're entering an area of turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts."

The flight attendants quickly strapped themselves.

Petrov and Gulag awoke with startled shouts.

"What is the meaning of this rattling?" Gulag demanded.

He pulled off his eye mask and glared around angrily.

Petrov cursed. He hadn't screwed the cap on his vodka bottle properly. It rolled off the table and soaked his crotch.

"Blasted turbulence! Someone get me something to clean up this mess."

Uncle secured his seatbelt, ignoring the commotion. Gulag jabbed the call button to summon an attendant.

"Explain this turbulence at once," he barked when one appeared.

"Just a bit of choppy air, sir," she replied calmly.

"Please keep your seatbelt fastened for your safety."

Gulag snorted in disdain but complied. Asp had returned to the Bloodies side, taking up his position by the window once more.

"Anything we should be worried about?" Dante asked, handing the heavy weapon back to Asp.

"Nothing we should be worried about," Asp answered.

If Asp wasn't concerned, the two Danish pilots certainly were.

Captain Lars and his co-pilot, Sven, sat up alert in the cockpit, deliberating on autopilot.

"Recheck the radar, Sven," Lars said.

"I'm seeing something odd developing off our port side."

Sven studied the screen, tracing a swirling green mass that seemed to be materializing on the edges of their flight path.

"That's no normal storm cell. Look at the irregularities in its formation."

"Sven, give me something more concrete I can work with here?"

"Give me a second, why don't you!"

Sven brought up the infrared imaging, erratic hot spots flickered within the ominous cloud bank.

"If I'm reading this right. This cell is developing abnormally fast. Pressure is dropping way too rapidly."

Captain Lars threw his headset down onto the instrument panel, letting out a string of expletives in Danish.

"For helvede! These dam shitty charter flights! I swear this cursed North Atlantic is trying to kill us!"

Sven, usually the calmer of the two, couldn't agree more. Rubbing a hand through his typical Danish blond hair, his eyes concentrated on the pulsating storm ahead.

Captain Lars gestured wildly at the cockpit window, clouds churned in mass.

"This is the third time this month we've encountered this kind of weather."

"Do you think we should turn back, Sven?"

"We're halfway between Canada and California. Better to layover at Goosebay, than fly into that thing!" Sven suggested.

"Alright, Sven, to hell with the schedule. I sure don't wanna end up as another statistic in some aviation graveyard."

Captain Lars grabbed the radio mic and tapped the button.

"Goose Bay Tower, Gulfstream 500, call sign Alpha Delta Charlie, requesting immediate turn-back clearance.

We are encountering unforeseen weather conditions here, requesting priority landing on return."

The controller on the other end sounded surprised.

"Alpha Delta Charlie, this is Goose Bay Tower. You are requesting a turn-back due to weather?

Can you explain the nature of the conditions?"

Captain Lars took a deep breath.

"Affirmative, tower. We are observing a rapidly developing storm system with erratic radar signatures and significant pressure drops.

Visibility is deteriorating rapidly. We believe it would be prudent to return to Goose Bay for the safety of our passengers and crew."

"Alpha Delta Charlie. We are currently experiencing similar weather conditions here.

However, we are prepared to assist with your landing. Please proceed with caution and follow ATC instructions."

Captain Lars nodded to Sven. "Acknowledged, Tower. I will be with you in three and a half hours. Prepare for our approach on return."

"We have you clocked on radar Gulfstream 500."

"Requesting radio contact with California to inform of our routing change?" said Captain Lars.

"Gulfstream 500, you are cleared to contact California departure on frequency 123.5. Goose Bay over and out."

Captain Lars switched channels.

"California departure, Gulfstream 500 diverting to Goose Bay due to weather conditions."

An unfamiliar Asian-accented voice responded.

"Gulfstream 500. Be careful up there. If you crash, Wang's and Pushkin's military ships are out there if you need rescuing."

Captain Lars grimaced. "I appreciate the thought, but crashing is certainly not in our plans today.

Goose Bay has already cleared us to land. We'll be fine once we're on the ground."

"Okay, you be safe then. Fair skies, Gulfstream 500. California departure out."

Captain Lars disbanded radio communications.

"What kind of air traffic controller says that to a pilot? Crashing! I've never of such a thing!"

"These new protocols from the regime will take some getting used to," Sven said

Captain Lars shook his head. "Let's focus on getting through this storm in one piece."

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The turbulence outside continued to worsen. The aircraft tilted from side to side.

"We need to alter course now or we may not make it back to Goose Bay in time," Sven instructed.

Captain Lars gripped the control yoke, maneuvering the Gulfstream, following Sven's suggested heading adjustment.

But before they could complete the turn, a massive downdraft suddenly slammed into the plane.

Alarms began to shriek. The aircraft shuddered. Captain Lars wrestled with the yoke even more, but the plane refused to respond.

The situation was becoming increasingly dire.

"We're being pulled into it!" Sven cried.

Sven spoke into the microphone, his grip trembling slightly from the turbulence shaking the cockpit.

His voice cracked under the tension of the situation.

"Goose Bay Tower, this is Alpha Delta Charlie, declaring an emergency!

We are being pulled into the violent storm cell. Request immediate assistance. Vector us to the nearest safe landing site."

"Alpha Delta Charlie, this is Goose Bay Tower. We are receiving your emergency request. Please hold for further instructions."

"Negative, Tower!" Sven shouted.

"We are losing control. We need immediate vectoring!"

The voice on the other end of the line was calm and steady.

"Alpha Delta Charlie, this is Goose Bay Tower. We are receiving your emergency request. Please hold for further instructions."

The craft bucked violently. Lightning stabbed the sky in an unnatural dance. Hail pelted the windows, obscuring visibility.

G-forces strained against their harnesses.

Captain Lars squeezed the throttle harder, desperately trying to navigate through low visibility.

Sven squeezed his eyes shut.

"This is it, Lars! We're going down!"

"Not yet, Sven. We're not going down without a fight."

"Get Sally up here, now!" Lars bellowed into the intercom.

When the attendant arrived, staggering with fright, Lars snapped.

"Warn the passengers; brace for impact!"

With an ear-splitting crack, the strange storm engulfed them completely.

The pilots gritted their teeth against the deafening chaos, fighting to regain control of their slanting Gulfstream through the crests of thunder.

In the hold, Grey and Robinson tumbled through the crashing of luggage. Gulag's cat wailed pitifully from its carrier.

"This thing is going to crash. We've got to find a couple of parachutes, now!" shouted Grey over the noise of rattling metal.

They struggled towards the emergency supply racks, trying to grab hold of anything that looked solid.

Flight manuals flung off the shelves. Maintenance tools threatened to smack them in the head tipping out of toolboxes, 'Final destination style'.

Reaching the racks, they frantically searched for parachutes.

"Here's one!" said Grey, yanking a pack from its slot, with an accompanying backpack.

"Do you even know how to work one of these?" Robinson asked skeptically.

"It can't be that hard, right? Pull the cord and hope it works?"

"Great, that is a no then!"

"I guess so!" said Grey.

Grey spotted a set of handcuffs attached to the metal rack, with a lone life jacket inside.

"Robinson, don't freak out, but we only have one life jacket,"

Grey fastened the life jacket to himself, as well as the parachute.

"You greedy bastard! So I fall out of the plane without a parachute. Maybe I have a heart attack.

If I am lucky enough to survive that. I drown instead.

"Something like that!"

Grey cusped himself to Robinson's wrist, locking the handcuffs.

"What are you doing?"

"If we're going to get thrown from this plane, I'd rather we stick together with one parachute than end up being separated," Grey said.

"What a cracking plan, Grey! I love the idea. What the fuck!"

The Gulfstream gave a sudden lurching bank to the right, sending Grey and Robinson in for another round of bumpyness.

Petrov slammed against his window. Gulag moaned. Uncle's expression was serene.

Asp steadied himself, muscles tense.

Through all the shaking, all members of the Bloodies had laid out and prepared the survival kits from within their kitbags.

They had access to a lightweight inflatable boat, parachutes, limited medical supplies, and emergency food rations.

At this point Captain Lars's eyes were glued to the instrument panel, monitoring airspeed and altitude, ensuring the plane was within safe operating parameters while they still had a chance.

"Stay calm, Sven; we've faced worse before. Remember?"

"Yeah, but that was in a flight simulator," Sven said.

"We crashed like six times!"

Captain Lars pushed the throttle forward.

"Damn it! We're losing altitude fast. We need to find an updraft—anything to get us above this turbulence.

The speakers cracked with static electricity. Then a faint voice broke through.

"Alpha Delta Charlie, this is Goose Bay Tower. Radar coverage has it that you are going the wrong way.

Please confirm your heading and altitude immediately. Over."

"Goosebay, Captain Lars is speaking. We have been sucked into a shitstorm from hell, about to make a cameo appearance in the 'Posiden Adventure'. Over."

"Alpha Delta Charlie, this is Goose Bay Tower. We are attempting to establish rescue boats.

Please maintain your heading and altitude for now. Stand by for further instructions. Over."

"Sven, look for any gaps. Any breaks in the clouds? Give me something."

"Nothing yet, Lars. Just more of this green soup," Sven replied, disappointingly.

"Keep searching for Christ's sake."

Sven feverishly scanned the radar again, searching the sea of green static for any glimpse of hope.

Then, a flash of something—a fleeting pixel of white amid the chaos.

He leaned closer, blinking away the adrenaline, willing it to reappear.

There, unmistakable against the squall—the faintest edge of clarity on the port side.

A sliver of an opening, a chance at escape. Sven slammed the radar with the heel of his hand as if testing reality.

But the gap remained.

"Lars, two o'clock!" Sven shouted,

"I see a break—a chance to punch through!"

Captain Lars spun the wheel, angling them toward the dot of light on the radar.

“Take us in; guide me through, Sven!”

Sven kept his voice steady.

“Veer five degrees starboard; ease back on the yoke. Gradually, smoothly now...”

The gap approached with painstaking slowness. The gusts kicked and punched the Gulfstream like a wild bronco. Powerful updrafts and downdrafts that threatened to throw them back into the storm again.

Captain Lars set his jaw, following Sven's instructions to the letter:

"Let's go for it."

He pushed the throttle forward some more. Inch by inch, the green soupy mess began to clear, revealing patches of dark navy beyond.

Sven monitored the instruments, breathing a sigh as pressure and temperature stabilized, but Lars wasn’t ready to celebrate yet.

“Nice work, Sven, but we’re not clear yet. Keep guiding us out smoothly.”

The winds lessened their wrath ever so slightly. Still, the plane shook, but gradually, the chaos eased.

Lightning flashed. They breached the other side, bursting free into the open air above the storm's fury.

“You did it; we’re in the clear!”

"Not bad for a couple of old Danish guys," said Captain Lars.

Cheers erupted around the passengers, but they were cut abruptly short.

A horrific, rending sound tore through the cabin as part of the tail assembly ripped away.

“Oh no! Structural damage!” cried Sven.

The ailerons jammed stubbornly. Lars fought with all his strength.

No response. They were going down.

Uncle sat calmly amid the disorder, a parachute already in place, a pillar of stillness.

Through the window, Uncle caught a glimpse of a bleak sight: the wing, warped and jagged, peeling away from the fuselage like a ripped bandage, revealing the skeletal framework beneath.

A wave of dizziness washed over Uncle; he closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, focusing on his qi.

"Stay calm and centered," he told himself. "Panic helps no one."

From under the presidential seat, Gulag strapped a parachute to his back. His life flashed before his eyes; all his scheming and conquests meant nothing if he died here.

He prayed to whatever gods might listen to spare him.

"Fools!" he roared at the pilots.

"Get me out of this, or you'll pay with your lives!"

Petrov grunted. "Morons!" he bellowed, cursing the pilots and the storm alike. He placed a backpack with a parachute attached.

But beneath the bluster, pure terror gripped them when the loud sound came from behind them.

The world warped, stretched thin by a monster crack, ripping through the plane like a monstrous claw. Petrov's bellow died in his throat, replaced by a primal scream. Pressurized metal roared in its death throes.

Gulag looked at Petrov with the implied look that they were about to meet their death sentence.

Seats flew from their moorings, baggage hurtled like missiles, and the screams of the passengers were whipped into a frenzy as the hull splintered.

The plane was mortally wounded. The engines screamed their agony fighting against the inevitable. The world tilted. The horizon was a dizzying blur.

Through his watering eyes, Petrov saw the tail section peel away like a discarded skin, revealing the raw, gaping wound where the fuselage had once held them aloft.

In that frozen moment, suspended between sky and oblivion, an attendant flung screaming through the ever-growing hole.

When the plane nosedived, Petov Grabbed the seat in front of him, his fingernails dug grooves into the leather.

Petrov's mouth went dry. This can't be it, he thought desperately. Not like this...

The rolling Atlantic waited for them below, an endless grave. The wind howled through the new tear in the fuselage.

In the cargo hold, Grey and Robinson were splattered against the inner structure like velcro from the added pressure.

Robinson looked at Grey doubtfully.

"The plane is coming apart!"

"Help me open the emergency exit, then," Grey shouted.

"I'm scared of heights," Robinson said fearfully.

"I don't know if I can do it."

Grey dragged Robinson along.

"You have no other choice! You're handcuffed to me!"

"I can't do it!"

"Do it!"

They wrestled with the door. It didn't take much effort; the pressure of suction was too great, exposing them to a bird's eye view of wind and rain.

Grey haphazardly double-checked the rucksack along with the parachute, double-checking that the pulling chord was within hand's reach.

Grey looked over at his bound companion and shouted. "Just breathe, we're in this together!"

But deep down he wondered if those would be the last words he ever spoke.

"On three!" he shouted over the noise. "One! Two!"

Robinson frantically yelled, "Grey, I can't do this, I'm not ready to die!"

"No, Grey, nooooo!"

"One!" They leaped into the abyss.

In the meantime, Captain Lars and Sven were in a whole world of shit.

Warning lights flashed with angry red strobes. Alarms blared, and cracks spider-webbed across the cockpit windows.

Outside, the wind howled angrily, seeking to reclaim its prey. The jet whined under the strain, and the airframe began to break apart.

The traffic collision avoidance system screamed desperate warnings in synthesized voices.

"Maintain altitude!"

"Increase climb rate!"

"Monitor vertical speed!"

"Traffic, traffic!"

Lars took a ragged breath and gripped the Mayday button. “Brace for impact. This is Alpha Delta Charlie, going down at... coordinates 35.7896° N, 79.0193° W."

Captain Lars fought to control the crippled plane as it plunged towards the raging ocean below.

Every jerk shook loose more pieces of wreckage.

Lars yelled into the radio. "Mayday, mayday, this is Alpha Delta Charlie!

We are going down! I repeat, we are going down! Our position is..."

Sven gripped Lars's arm. "There's nothin' more we can do, mate. Time to jump."

Lars threw open the intercom. “Get ready in Crash positions, everyone; we’re ditching in the ocean!”

Lars yanked back on the ejection handle. The cockpit canopy shot off in a hailstorm of explosive bolts.

Sucked out, Captain Lars and Sven were hurled into the void, parachutes ripping open. Below the Gulfstream spun out of control, an ungainly bird falling from the sky.

The final screams in the passenger cabin were swallowed by the roar of the wind.

The airframe had completely disintegrated by now. Bodies were sucked from their seats, ripped with the force of a vacuum cleaner.

Gulag tumbled through the air, a ragdoll at the mercy of the storm; his parachute ripped open, splaying his desperate attempt to survive.

Ironically the Gulfstream's tailpiece piece with his presidential portrait whizzed past him, himself staring back at himself for a split second.

Uncle fell with practiced calm, gliding smoothly toward the dark water below. A Chinese, navy man at heart in his younger days. He had drilled such scenarios before.

The Gulfstream hit the water with an apocalyptic explosion, immediately eviscerating on contact. An enormous plume of water and debris mushroom clouded hundreds of feet into the sky.

Petrov had flailed wildly before he hit the waves, his body a speck against the vastness of the sky.

Upon impact, his bear-like body was pulled under, winded, and disoriented. Petrov saw the shadowy outlines of fish illuminated only by the last few emergency lights of the Gulfstream flickering and dying from afar.

When he broke the surface, he gasped for air, trying to stay afloat in the churning ocean.

That's when he knew without a doubt that he was doomed unless by some miracle one of Pushkin's or Wang's ships rescued him from the belly of the raging sea.

Asp and the Bloodies opened their parachutes and descended. On the way down. Asp could see Grey and Robinsion plummeting with an opening parachute between them.

Somewhere out there, Sven and Captain Lars floated in life jackets caught in the endless currents of the Atlantic, praying for rescue in the vast nothingness between Europe and America.

For them, the storm had only just begun.

The once peaceful flight had become a terrifying nightmare, with the entourage and staff scattered across the sky and sea, fighting against the elements for their lives.

Given over to the unforgiving Atlantic—a waiting titan of waves ready to swallow them whole.