Flight 19 Read online

  Flight 19

  Grant Finnegan

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright © 2018 by Grant Finnegan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Also by Grant Finnegan

  The Seventh List

  For Sharon,

  my Yin

  Disclaimer (Part 1)

  As the full disclaimer includes a spoiler for the later parts of Flight 19, I have included this important disclaimer in two parts. You can read this page without spoiling your enjoyment of the story.

  The Airbus A380, which forms part of the story of Flight 19, is one of the most technologically and mechanically advanced aircraft ever built.

  It is a marvel of modern engineering, and has a pristine record of service since it first took to the skies many years ago.

  When you read the entire story of Flight 19, you will read that in no way was the disappearance (and reappearance) of the Airbus A380 connected in any shape or form to the actual aircraft itself.

  Please read the full disclaimer, found at the end of this novel, if you feel the need to do so.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Review this book

  Keep in touch

  Disclaimer (full)

  A message from the author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Time.

  It has a way of showing us what really matters.

  Prologue

  August 1927.

  The Dole Air Race was the brainchild of Hawaii-based businessman James D. Dole, known in the Hawaii Territory as the “Pineapple King.” Dole, the owner of the Hawaiian Pineapple Company, sponsored the race to promote the growing air-transport opportunities between the islands and the mainland USA.

  Inspired by Charles A. Lindberg’s world-first transatlantic flight earlier that year, Dole put up $25,000 in cash for the fastest fixed-wing plane to fly non-stop from Oakland, California, to the Hawaiian Islands.

  The competition was hailed as the Dole Derby, and almost right from the get-go, it was an unmitigated disaster. Ten lives would end in the attempt to obtain the considerable first prize, which in today’s terms would have been over $340,000.

  One of the more tragic parts of the story involved the plane called the Dallas Spirit. On encountering mechanical problems soon after a successful takeoff, the Swallow Monoplane returned to Oakland safely. There, the pilot and navigator heard that two other planes in the race were missing, having ceased all radio communications only a couple of hours after taking off from Oakland, California, and quickly repaired their plane to get her back in the air.

  Their aim was no longer to win the race and Dole’s cash, but, heroically, to search for the two missing planes that remained lost somewhere in the Pacific.

  The pilot of the Dallas Spirit William Erwin, and his navigator, Alvin Eichwaldt, never returned from that flight of mercy.

  If anyone had told me six months earlier that I would be sitting at the end of a runway at a military base in the cockpit of the world’s largest commercial airplane, I would have asked them to share the pot they were smoking.

  The mood in the cockpit was palpable: nervous but excited. A lot had to happen to get us there.

  As we waited for the final clearance for take-off, my mind drifted to the phrase “a fork in the road.” For a metaphor, it’s rather literal, describing a deciding moment when a significant choice is required.

  I had reflected on that phrase, and that situation, many times in the past six months.

  And what I struggled with more than anything is this: the last time we found ourselves at a fork in the road, someone else made our choice for us.

  Fucking destiny—you’re a bitch.

  Chapter One

  185 days ago.

  It was early morning, 41,000 feet above the surface of the Pacific Ocean.

  The Pacific International Airlines Airbus A380 was approaching the Californian coast, less than 80 miles away, at a cruising speed of just over 620mph. My mind was already drifting to thoughts of a hot breakfast on the ground, followed by a nap in my non-descript hotel in the City of Angels.

  A quick scan of the controls and then a glance over to Tony confirmed that everything looked as usual. I didn’t know why I bothered looking at the screens when I was with Tony. I might as well have just looked at his face: that alone would tell me whether or not everything was okay.

  As I was about to say something witty to Tony, the communication link with air traffic control came up with the message that would be forever etched in my memory.

  It was from the en-route air traffic controller based at the ARTCC (the Oakland Air Route Traffic Control Center) in Fremont, California.

  He was asking us to identify ourselves or, more precisely, our plane.

  What the fuck?

  The same message came through again a second or so later.

  Tony and I shared the same horrified look.

  I responded as quickly as I could type, giving him our flight number.

  A few seconds later, another message hit the screen, asking me to contact the ARTCC on the satellite phone. The handset was within arm’s reach.

  Tony and I shared another puzzled look. This time the concern on our faces was evident. As the satellite phone connected with the ATC—the air traffic controller—I could feel the panic starting to rise.

  “Unidentified aircraft, please identify yourself.” The voice was slow but unsteady.

  “This is Pacific International Airlines Flight PI019,” I responded.

  At that moment, the ATC had already hit the commands on his screen and was placing a 1215 emergency call to all other aircraft in the immediate area.

  He was asking them if they could identify our plane.

  I could hear the panic in the guy’s voice.

  “Pacific International Airlines Flight PI019.” Another voice had come
on the line from the ATC. “Please confirm your transponder code immediately.”

  When I looked over at my screen, it was the first time I felt genuine fear.

  The ATC’s extensive training for events such as this one now kicked in immediately.

  He passed instructions to the United States military (via an army officer permanently based in the same room) who quickly contacted four fighter jets—on a routine training session about 30 miles from the A380’s position—telling them to scramble to the commercial airplane pronto.

  “There’s something wrong with the transponder,” Ross said, turning to Tony.

  As Tony peered down at the small screen, Ross could feel the color draining from his face.

  The voice from the ARTCC spoke once again.

  “Pacific International Airlines Flight PI019, you are being directed immediately to Vandenberg Air Force Base. Fighter jets intend to rendezvous with your plane in five minutes.”

  Ross peered over to Tony. They scoffed at what they were hearing.

  “Oakland en-route air traffic controller,” Ross said sternly, “what is going on here—what is the issue?”

  The silence on the line was palpable.

  Ross was about to ask the same question again, but the guy spoke before he could.

  “Pilot of the unidentified airplane, purporting to be Pacific International Airlines PI019, await rendezvous with United States Air Force.”

  Ross was ready to lose his shit. He’d always had a good handle on his temper, but this was too much.

  “We are Pacific International Airlines Flight PI019; we’ve already given you our correct transponder number.”

  The guy paused for a second and then found the courage to press on.

  “Pacific International Airlines Flight PI019 disappeared without a trace precisely five years ago. I don’t know how your transponder number can be the same, but it is.”

  Ross nearly spat into his microphone. “Listen here, ATC, that’s fucking imposs—”

  The guy spoke to Ross as if he were God himself.

  “My brother’s only daughter was on that flight, whoever you are,” he said in a blunt tone. He then growled, “I know your transponder number in my sleep.”

  Tony looked down to the transponder, this time reaching over and tapping the screen. It made no difference.

  The date was five years later than it had been less than 15 minutes ago.

  The supervisor at the ARTCC hit one of the buttons in front of him and seconds later picked up the nearest handset nearby.

  “Get me the LAX tower.”

  Fifteen seconds later, the silence on the line changed to the sound of the call connecting.

  “Dave Collins.”

  “Dave—Jeff Collins, your wonderful older brother. I wish I was calling with less serious things to discuss,” he said.

  The two brothers talked often. They’d both started their careers as junior ATCs in the very control room Dave now supervised.

  “Tell me what’s going on, Jeff,” Dave said.

  “Sorry to do this, brother,” Jeff said, “but an aircraft is claiming to be the Pacific International flight.” He took a breath. “I am not fucking with you.”

  Dave leaned heavily against the top of his desk and shook his head, overcome by a vision of his only daughter, Emily. She had been on the plane when it disappeared without a trace five years earlier, in 2019, on a flight from Sydney back home to Los Angeles.

  Emily had spent the previous three months exploring Australia with a couple of friends who had gone on to New Zealand, and chose to come home early. University and her part-time job could not be put off any further.

  “What about the transponder number?” Dave said.

  Jeff did not hesitate.

  “They never took it out of Datalink; this is why my en-route ATC realized something was amiss—it just appeared 80 miles off the coast from nowhere—same transponder number. For whatever reason, they never removed it five years earlier.”

  Dave’s heart started to beat as if he’d just bench-pressed a small car.

  “Where is it heading now?”

  “This is an unsecured line, Dave. You know I can’t tell you that.”

  Dave cursed himself before muttering, “Okay, fuck it.”

  He terminated the call and threw the handset roughly back at the desk.

  A moment later, his cell phone pinged. It was a message from Jeff.

  Dave knew he wouldn’t risk telling him where the A380 was being redirected to, so he wondered why he had sent him a message.

  It was a hint.

  “Send me a bottle of your favorite wine,” was all it said.

  Dave smirked.

  His favorite wine was from a small vineyard, Sanford Winery, in Lompoc, Santa Barbara County, three hours’ drive toward San Francisco from LA.

  Thirty minutes up the road was one of only three designated runways in California where you could land an Airbus A380.

  Vandenberg Air Force Base.

  Dave grabbed his coat and hurried for the door.

  Chapter Two

  Tony was the first to spot the fighter jets.

  “Jesus,” Tony gasped, “they were quick.”

  The fighter jets appeared in our vision to the left of our plane. They came past us in a flash before doing a 180-degree turn to flank our airplane on both sides.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. “What do I tell the passengers and crew?”

  Tony looked over to me and shook his head.

  “Make something up.” He looked out the window again, waiting for the fighter jets to arrive back at our plane, but then looked back over to me. “And make it quick. They’ll be back on us any second.”

  After taking a drink of water, I reached over to tap on the internal comms button. I’ll make it succinct and sincere, I thought. As I started the announcement to the 210 passengers and crew, a stab of confidence shot through me; I knew it would all be sorted out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Captain Ross Moore here. Unfortunately, there has been an incident at LAX. Due to this, as many of you will see in a moment, we are being protected by our good friends in the US Air Force.” I glance over to Tony, and I can see his confidence returning as I continue. “We have been directed to another airport and are currently en route there. Pacific International apologizes for this inconvenience. Although your safety and well-being are more important to us than the issues this change will have for all of us, be it temporarily, I thank you for your patience and cooperation and will come back to you with more updates as they come to hand.”

  I punched the button again and took another deep breath. Tony smiled and patted my right shoulder. “Well done, Roscoe—excellent work.”

  I looked out my cockpit window and saw the F-35 Lightning II jet sitting so close to our plane that I could almost make out the color of the pilot’s sideburns. The pilot, as if sensing me staring at him, looked over and nodded to the right.

  Vandenberg Air Force Base was coming into view.

  Dave Collins told the room full of bewildered LAX ATCs that he was going to Vandenberg immediately. He’d barely left the tower before some schmuck in the control room had posted on social media that a plane claiming to be the one lost five years ago was about to land at Vandenberg.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Dave had driven to the outskirts of the immense coastal military base, the social media tsunami on the subject of Flight 19 was coming close to bringing the internet to its knees.

  Most major news services had picked up the story within an hour or so of the first words being posted about the plane online.

  Vandenberg AFB, much to Dave’s frustration, was already two hours into a lockdown not seen since 9/11.

  Every available member of security personnel, including ones on leave, was told to return and report immediately to their posts. They surrounded every possible entry point to the base, with strict orders that no one was to enter without the highest authority. Air-force fight
er jets were now patrolling the airspace in and around Vandenberg; all commercial traffic within the vicinity of the sprawling base was strictly off limits. Any news-network helicopter hoping to get a glimpse of the plane had no chance.

  There were already 15 news vans outside the security cordon at the front gate when Dave tried to get through.

  “But my daughter is on that flight,” he pleaded with the burly guard, who simply said, only once, “We are under orders, sir. No one, until further notice, is allowed to enter.”

  Chaos reigned as more people arrived, mostly at the main entrance, all wanting to find out what had happened to friends or family who had been unlucky enough to board the plane five years earlier.

  Within 30 minutes, there were more than a dozen armed guards at the gate.