Flight 19 Page 2

  Every major news service was now running the story, and all the leading networks had a presence at Vandenberg, filming the real-life drama that was unfolding before the world’s eyes.

  Dave was pulled aside by a CNN reporter who overheard him telling another bystander he was the tower supervisor at LAX and the father of one of the passengers on-board the flight when it disappeared five years ago.

  Dave stood at five feet, ten inches and weighed a solid 180lb. His green eyes were burning with emotion, and his small, rounded face appeared to be fixed in a near-permanent frown. He ran his hand over his bald scalp, feeling the perspiration forming there quickly.

  He was desperate to find out if Emily was still on-board.

  “I am talking to Dave Collins, who coincidentally happens to be the ATC tower supervisor at LAX,” the reporter said directly into the camera. “He’s also the father of one of the passengers of Flight 19. Dave, what can you tell us about this unbelievable turn of events unfolding before us?”

  “I can’t tell you much at this time. The plane, the pilot, and all the usual details indicate this is the precise flight which…” He seemed to stumble on his words; his Adam’s apple moved uncontrollably. “…disappeared 90 minutes out of Honolulu five years ago.” Dave’s head tipped as he looked to the ground before his emotions began to take over.

  “I just want to know what the hell is going on,” he said, looking back up and deep into the reporter’s eyes. “I just want to know if Emily—is on-board.”

  The reporter knew this was about all she was going to get from Dave, so she thanked him before the camera panned closer toward her. Dave slipped away and continued to look futilely at the main buildings of the base for any sign of the plane or his daughter.

  “There you go, Dean,” the reporter said, looking intently into the camera. “We have it firsthand. Flight 19, which tragically, we had initially believed, crashed into the Pacific Ocean without a trace. It appears now to have reappeared out of nowhere and is sitting behind us here at Vandenberg.”

  Even she looked perplexed.

  “This—” She seemed to catch a thought before going on. “After what some said was the largest and most expensive search-and-rescue operation in America’s history. It involved hundreds of boats, 90-plus planes, nearly every available helicopter in California, and even two Navy submarines, which, in the end, were trying to find any trace of the plane in the deepest parts of the South Pacific between Hawaii and the Californian coast. Pacific International Airlines Flight 19 was, without doubt, the number one mystery in modern-day aviation. And now this.”

  Dean Naylor, the news anchor, hummed for a moment and then said to the reporter, and the millions glued to their screens, “Social media is already throwing around theories that this is a hoax.” He checked his notes before gazing back into the camera. “And that someone is playing a sick joke on these poor people who lost loved ones on Flight 19.”

  The reporter nodded as the anchor’s comments filtered through her earpiece, before replying, “We’ll soon find out Dean.” Her expression slipped into a frown. “Judging by the look of the tower supervisor at LAX a moment ago, if this is a hoax, God help the ones who are behind it.”

  Chapter Four

  Our plane was to land on the biggest runway at Vandenberg Air Force Base.

  I looked over to Tony just after all of our wheels had hit the ground. Ben Stiller would have to be his twin brother—the likeness was remarkable, right down to the healthily sized ears and the thick mat of hair tinged with plenty of silver on the sides. He was doing okay, considering what the hell was going at the time. We all handle extreme stress differently—that is a given. Tony handled stress better than anyone I’d ever known.

  The Vandenberg tower was now directing us over to the mother of all aircraft hangars. It looked enormous: I’d guess two gridiron fields wide, and probably two deep at least. The wing tips of our plane had no chance of coming anywhere near the sides.

  As I slowly taxied toward the massive structure, a plague of variously sized tactical vehicles sprung from every direction, ensuring the plane went in one direction only.

  My last announcement to the passengers and crew continued to replay in my head, coupled with the conversation we’d had with the guys coming into Californian airspace. The logical part of my brain was just refusing to believe what they’d said.

  How the hell had we skipped five years?

  Fucking impossible.

  The apprehension throughout the 478 square meters of cabin space was growing, as if every passenger’s intuitions had combined into one massive consciousness. Even those who did not fly regularly knew—something was very, very wrong.

  The tip of the A380 crossed over the threshold of the enormous hangar, and within 40 seconds the superstructure had digested all but the twenty-five-meter-high top of the $300 million aircraft before it, too, disappeared into the building.

  Guys in military uniforms on the ground directed Ross to where they wanted him to park the A380 inside the hangar. As he pulled on the brakes of the airplane, other soldiers hurriedly organized for the hangar doors to come together and close.

  Ross’s intercom chirped in his ear. It was Sharon, the leader of the cabin crew.

  “The passengers are starting to implode in here, Captain Moore. What is going on? Why are we here?”

  Ross met Tony’s eyes and looked out into the hangar, pausing for a moment before hitting the intercom button.

  “Something is up with our aircraft, Sharon. That’s all I can tell you right now. I’ll announce to the passengers in a moment; hold on in there.”

  Tony watched with fascination as base personnel on the ground scurried around the plane as if it were an alien spacecraft. What made him feel a little less fascinated, and more shit-scared, was that all of them were keeping a safe distance from the plane itself, and they all had their weapons up and pointing toward the aircraft.

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, Roscoe,” he said.

  The two men started the procedure to power down the world’s largest commercial airplane. At the same time, Ross hit the intercom button and put on the best pilot voice he could muster.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain, Ross Moore, speaking. There isn’t a lot I can tell you right now, other than the obvious situation. I am waiting on instructions from the air-force personnel. Once I have this, I will let you know what we are doing. In the meantime, you can take off your seatbelts, although I ask you to remain seated, and patient. We will get to the bottom of this.”

  Ross had barely a second to catch his breath before a quick shot of static followed by an unfamiliar voice jumped into his headset.

  “Captain Ross Moore.” The voice was stern yet not unfriendly. “This is Colonel Parsons, of Vandenberg AFB.” Ross turned the small dial on his console to ensure he could hear the guy clearly through his headset.

  “We are under instructions to board your plane under armed guard and establish your identity.” Ross looked out the window as if looking for this guy, though he was not even in the hangar—he was talking from the base’s own control tower.

  “Roger that, Colonel Parsons,” Ross said calmly, “I will be waiting at the main door, over.”

  “Captain Moore,” the colonel said slowly, “I would suggest you open the door as soon as you can and wait for me to arrive. And for your safety, stand facing outwards and with your hands in the air, where our men can see them.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Tony muttered under his breath. “Is this happening?” he said, looking over to Ross, who had unbuckled his seatbelt and was rising from his seat.

  He stood there for a second and pondered his first officer’s comment, mentally preparing to open the main airplane door to the outside world and do something he had never done before in his life.

  Surrender.

  Chapter Five

  Standing at six foot two, with broad shoulders, and a boyish face sitting below a thick mat of ne
atly kept blonde hair, Australian born and bred Captain Ross Moore was what many would regard as the typical pin-up international pilot.

  With his large green eyes, straight and perfectly white teeth, and a boyish grin with dimples, he’d won the hearts of women all over the world in his eighteen-year career as an international airline pilot.

  Aside from his good looks, his extensive network of friends all over the world, and what many considered one of the most exciting jobs you could wish for, one other thing about Ross capped it all off.

  He was a tried-and-true good guy.

  He’d do anything for friends and family. He was one of that rare breed of people who rarely had anything negative to say about anyone.

  But that was about to be put to the test.

  Ross closed his eyes for a second as the mobile staircase came up to the main access door of the plane. He waved at the two soldiers through the nearest window, hoping they would see his pilot’s cap, indicating that he, the captain, was ready to open the door as instructed.

  Ross stood in the doorway of the now-opened forward door of the A380, on the lower floor. With gritted teeth, he slowly raised his arms until his empty hands were sticking outside the aircraft. The two soldiers stood on either side at the top of the staircase. There was no noticeable expression on their faces.

  He wondered how well a bourbon, neat, would go down right now.

  “Captain Moore, don’t move an inch,” the one on the left shouted.

  Make that bourbon a double, Ross thought.

  “Keep your hands above your head,” the other one said, signaling for Ross to move out onto the staircase platform. He did so without delay

  One of the soldiers then led Ross down the staircase.

  His counterpart scurried down a moment later, trying as best as he could to keep an eye on the open door of the plane and make it to the ground without falling flat on his face. As soon as the second soldier’s feet hit the floor of the hangar, other stern-looking soldiers quickly pushed the staircase away.

  Six heavily armed soldiers then led Ross away from the plane toward a lone doorway that seemed miles away from the aircraft.

  As they reached the door, Ross stole one last glance over his shoulder at the plane. His heart sank as he realized many of the windows of the plane had people staring out of them in his direction. They all looked scared out of their wits.

  Ross was led into a small meeting room and told to take a seat at the table, while two soldiers remained in the open doorway. Another two stood outside in the hallway. You’d think it was fucking Elvis Presley who’d just got off the plane, he thought.

  All had their hands close to their weapons, and all had nothing to say to him.

  Fifteen minutes later, Ross finally had two people enter the room who would talk to him.

  The shorter, stockier one reached over and offered to shake Ross’s hand.

  “Dave Mennek, Federal Aviation Authority,” he announced. His hand was sweaty and his handshake weak.

  His round glasses sat atop a small, feminine nose. His eyes were beady, his face plump, red, and nervous. His smile was strained and fleeting.

  The other guy waited for Mennek to sit down before standing up and reaching over toward Ross with an outstretched hand.

  “Max E. Brown,” he said with a firm voice and an even firmer handshake. Ross knew he was probably military or ex-military. There was something about his persona that reeked of testosterone and years of breaking bad people’s necks.

  “NTSB,” he said with a don’t-fuck-with-me grin. The National Transportation Safety Board. Max was tall even seated; he reminded Ross of an aging jock.

  Fit, robust, and with no shortage of self-assurance, Brown had a head of silver hair that screamed defense-force-issue. The look only accentuated his imposing demeanor.

  Ross leaned forward and rested both elbows on the table. He looked back and forth between the two men for a few moments and decided it was time to get the ball rolling. “What the fuck is going on here?” he said.

  Mennek looked as if he was going to shrink into his seat.

  He turned to Brown, who had not taken his serious-looking eyes off the pilot.

  The NTSB man hadn’t batted an eyelid at Ross’s venomous, and impatient tone. He leaned forward and said, “Well, son, ah was going ask you one simple question.” He let that hang in the air for dramatic effect.

  Ross gave him a quizzical look as if to say, “What is the question?” Brown looked at him with grave eyes before continuing. “We’d like to know where you and your plane out there have been for the last five years.”

  Chapter Six

  Seven days later.

  Someone in the American press had labeled it “Hangar 19,” the enormous hangar situated on Vandenberg, housing what another bright spark in the world press had labeled the “ghost ship.” Whatever those people called it, the world’s attention was on this one structure and the mind-numbing mystery it contained.

  For the 210 passengers and crew, the whole event was turning into a nightmare and, what was more, no one on the flight except Ross and Tony knew what was going on.

  The passengers and crew were treated as humanely as possible and given regular meals and comfortable accommodations for sleeping—between all-too-regular interviews and questioning.

  All this activity took place under the watch of the biggest security contingent ever seen in California. The word online was that the headcount was in the thousands. Some called it overkill, though the “American Fraternity of Acronyms” (AFOA), as one New York Times reporter called them—the FBI, CIA, DHS, you name it—had never encountered a situation like this before.

  Before anyone was allowed to leave, each of the agencies concerned just wanted to check, re-check, and re-check one more time that they had all these elements of the situation correct:

  Flight 19 left Honolulu en route to Los Angeles for a regular five hour and thirty-minute trip on Thursday the 17th of January 2019.

  Just over two hours and forty-four minutes into the flight, the plane evaporated into thin air.

  Five years to the day, the same Pacific International A380, carrying 210 passengers and crew, had reappeared within meters of where it disappeared from radar five years earlier.

  As far as every single person on-board knew, it was still 2019 and nothing strange had occurred during the flight until the diversion to Vandenberg under air-force fighter-jet escort.

  And then there was her.

  This was where the mystery reached new heights.

  In the early stages of the investigation, every passenger was referred to by their seat number for easier reference. And passenger E22A (aka PE22A) had the investigators thoroughly and understandably speechless.

  PE22A’s husband, who was not on the flight, had confirmed under oath, and hooked up to a lie detector, the mind-blowing situation concerning his wife. Statements from over a dozen people who knew PE22A, including her physician, friends, and family, corroborated her husband’s story.

  When Flight 19 vanished in 2019, PE22A was 12 weeks short of giving birth to her third child.

  After three independent medical tests, it was undeniable.

  She was still 28 weeks pregnant, just as she had been five years ago.

  Chapter Seven

  The AFOA, according to that journalist from the Times, was the large group of government agencies involved with handling the return of Flight 19—the people, the mystery, the plane, the whole box-and-dice. Representatives from the following agencies worked shoulder to shoulder at Vandenberg upon the return of the A380:

  CAP: The Civil Air Patrol

  CIA: The Central Intelligence Agency

  DHS: The Department of Homeland Security

  FAA: The Federal Aviation Authority

  FBI: The Federal Bureau of Investigation

  NTSB: The National Transportation Safety Board

  TSA: The Transport Security Administration

  USAF: The United States Air Fo
rce

  On the first Friday night following Flight 19’s reappearance, the first high-level meeting of the AFOA took place at Vandenberg AFB. Captain Ross Moore and his copilot Tony Papas were included in the session.

  The president had made the executive decision that Homeland Security was to be the lead team among the AFOA, and that they were to brief the president personally on any new developments.

  The first order of business was to confirm that the Airbus A380 was the actual plane that disappeared five years earlier.

  Representatives from Airbus Corporate Affairs confirmed this unequivocally. They spent 30 minutes explaining the many parts (numbering almost 600) that had serial numbers unique to each A380 ever built.

  They then discussed the digital signatures and other forms of identification associated with the aircraft, which technicians at Airbus agreed no one could ever hope to copy.

  The plane was the same one sold to Pacific International Airlines three years before the disappearance of Flight 19.

  A spokesperson for a division of the CIA that specialized in missing persons then took the podium and also spent close to 30 minutes debunking theories involving foul play or the world’s greatest illusion. DNA evidence, so far taken from half of the passengers, confirmed they were the people on-board when the plane vanished five years ago.

  Ross and Tony sat stony-faced at the rear of the large meeting room. They knew they too would stand in front of the podium and take questions from the AFOA representatives.

  Ross had spoken to virtually all of them over the last week, and thankfully they hadn’t treated him like a criminal. By the end of the week, most were treating him almost like a celebrity, inviting him to help them try and come up with an explanation for what had happened.

  One of the lead investigators from Homeland Security signaled to Ross and Tony to come to the podium.