emergency meeting following the confirmed hijacking of a Boeing 777 by climate change activists. More than three hundred and fifty people are believed to be held hostage on board Flight 79, the first-ever scheduled direct flight from London to Sydney. The hijackers have stated that they intend to remain airborne until the fuel runs out unless the government concedes to their demands to bring forward their target for zero carbon emissions to 2030 and to issue fines to airlines that cannot demonstrate a commitment toward renewable energy. A few moments ago, the prime minister gave this statement…
“Daddy, that’s Mummy’s plane.”
As the feed switches to an on-the-ground reporter, we hear the muted sounds of a crowd—cameras clicking, journalists talking—and the indefinable crispness of night air. I picture the prime minister standing in a floodlit Downing Street, the severity of the situation bringing the country’s media out of bed.
Just say yes, I urge him silently. Whatever they want, just agree to it. He doesn’t have to keep his word, does he? These people are criminals. Terrorists. Just say yes. I tug at the metal around my wrists, frustrated to be made a bystander in my own crisis. Each radio update makes me feel more helpless.
“I would like to extend my sympathies to the families of all the passengers and staff on board Flight 79. World Airlines are making personal contact with all next of kin, to ensure that updates are passed as swiftly as possible.”
My mobile is upstairs, and the charge was already low when I picked up Sophia. Have they tried to call me? Then again, maybe I’m not listed as Mina’s next of kin any more. I imagine her emailing Human Resources, giving the number of a friend, her father… Following my recent separation, please update my personnel file. I feel a flash of anger, not toward Mina but toward myself. My marriage crashed around me, and I could have saved it. I wasn’t thousands of miles away, I wasn’t listening to radio reports, I wasn’t shackled to a pipe six feet underground. I was right next to Mina—a copilot, not a passenger—and I did nothing.
The prime minister continues.
“Indonesian air traffic control operators have identified the hijacked aircraft and obtained authorization for a military intercept, and we are in the process of establishing what action has been taken since Flight 79 failed to maintain radio contact.”
Having neatly passed culpability, he leaves the sort of silence that introduces a soundbite.
“Make no mistake.” Another pause. “This is an act of terrorism.”
Yes. I didn’t vote for the PM, I didn’t vote for his party, but at least he’s calling it what it is. Not activists or environmentalists or laughable hippies stopping the traffic with rain dances. Terrorists.
“And we will not be held to ransom by terrorists.”
What? No! No, no, no, no…
“Environmental issues are a key part of my party strategy, and we are working across the aviation sector to achieve lower carbon…”
I don’t listen to the rest. There’s a roaring in my head. All I can see is Mina; all I can hear is the words of a man who doesn’t have anything at stake, doesn’t have someone he loves on a hijacked plane. Someone who is thinking about political spin, about point scoring and vote winning and the upcoming election.
We will not give in.
Where does that leave Mina?
THIRTY-FIVE
PASSENGER 1G
I found it interesting to see the passengers turn on one another. How quickly the layers of human decency strip away, how swiftly raw instinct and prejudice take over…
Their leap in thought to Islamic terrorism was a natural one, and in fact, I have studied such acts in depth, learning much about their devotion, their patience, their methodology. The 2008 Mumbai bombings were the result of almost a year of training and planning. There are, however, distinct differences between a jihadist’s actions and ours. They are motivated by belief; we are motivated by science. The facts are unarguable, whether or not you choose to listen to them.
The business-class passengers quieted down once they saw the lengths to which they had forced me to go. I had not planned to kill Carmel, but her death reinforced our position of power, and I felt that things would be easier from then on. As the remaining crew was occupied fetching water, I took advantage of the opportunity to pay a visit to the economy cabin. Just as I was entering the lounge, I witnessed a movement behind the bar. I pulled up short.
“Who’s there?”
Slowly, a man stood