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EXCERPT
Smith’s
man, Charlie, had no problem stealing a uniform from one of the two approved
maintenance subcontractors allowed to service planes at that particular
airport. The electronic gate key got him in with no hassles. But just in case
anyone was around to ask questions, he dummied up a fake Airworthiness
Directive and stuck it in his back pocket so he’d have it to wave under the alert
bastard’s nose, if need be.
The plane was located in one of the newer, larger hangars at the end of the third row, the one closest to the runway. The swipe card that opened the hangar’s manual double door had already been coded to open on command. Once he was inside, he closed the door behind him.
The job was a piece of cake. First Charlie loosened a bleed clamp in the pressurization system, but just enough to ensure that, forty minutes into the flight—by the time the plane reached an altitude of 26,000 feet or so—the outflow valve would pop off. When that happened, the cabin would decompress immediately, and all hell would break loose.
Next he replaced the emergency oxygen tank with an identical one that was filled with nitrogen instead.
The pilot’s emergency procedure was predictable. First he’d put on his oxygen mask, and instruct any passengers to do the same. Then he’d radio the tower for an emergency descent, and switch the transponder to the MAYDAY signal: SQUAWK 7700. If he was really quick, he might even have time to put power all the way back to idle, and pull out spoilers—
Of course, if the pilot’s body were to stay intact—fat chance of that, considering that the plane’s angle would be steep upon impact—the amount of the gas found in his lungs would be too negligible to raise suspicions among the NTSB investigators.
In other words, the cause of the crash would stay a mystery.
Personally, Charlie hoped there wouldn’t be too many passengers onboard. As a former flyboy himself, nothing annoyed him more than the media’s endless ruminations about the amount of fatalities caused by “pilot error.”
Then again, this time around he’d hate for them to suspect the truth.
(c) 2013 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This work is protected under copyright laws and reproduction is strictly prohibited. Permission to reproduce the material in any manner or medium must be secured from the Author.
