Endless flight – a short story

It had been billed as the longest commercial flight in the world. London to Sydney.

Previous times it had been flown, it was devoid of passengers and cargo, except for a few reporters and airline staff; not more than about 20.

The plane, state of the art, was capable of flying twenty-one hours straight. We would only need Nineteen and a half. It was the first flight of its kind, and we were the first to participate in what was being touted as history-making.

I was on board only because I’d won a competition. To be honest, I couldn’t believe my luck.

I guess it was the same for the other 287 of us on board. With baggage and cargo included, oh, and not forgetting fuel, I guess our biggest concern was getting off the ground.

It wasn’t long before that fear had been dispelled, though for a moment more than one of us thought we might not get into the air. There were collective sighs of relief when we finally lurched into the air.

Once the seat belt sign went off, the First Officer spoke to the passengers, more or less telling us we were going to make history and to sit back and enjoy the in-flight service.

I guess it was ironic that as someone who didn’t like flying I was in this plane. The thing is, I didn’t expect to win the competition. But, I was on board for the experience and was going to make the most of it. I’d brought half a dozen crossword books.

I woke from an uneasy sleep about two hours before I e plane was due to land. The cabin lights had come on, and breakfast was about to be served.

Everyone else was in varying states of awareness. Some hadn’t slept at all, which was what usually happened to me, and they looked like I felt. Bleary-eyed and half awake.

I looked at the flight path in the headrest in front of me, and it said we had about an hour and fifty minutes, and from the outset, precisely on time. We’d had headwinds and tailwinds but neither had any lasting effect on our arrival time.

Something else did. After breakfast had been cleared away, and we were all getting ready for the last hour of the flight, word came through from the flight deck that we had to go into a holding pattern due to a problem on the ground.

The first question on everyone’s mind, did we have enough fuel. The Captain, this time, allayed that fear.

But, I was sitting over the wing where I could see the engine. I was not an expert but I thought I’d heard a murmur, the sort an engine made where the fuel supply was running out.

Perhaps not. Perhaps it was my overwrought imagination after not enough proper sleep.

Another half-hour passed, and I could feel a change in the plane’s flight. I was now listening and waiting and interpreting. The Captain said the problem was resolved and we were cleared to land.

That’s when the engine outside my window stuttered, if only for a fraction of a second.

Fortunately, we were well into our descent, and I could see the ground below. Now, going through some low cloud, the ride became bumpy, and I was sure it was covering the more frequent stuttering of the engine, and once, I was not the only one to hear it.

As the wheels went down and clunked into place, I think the engine stopped, though I couldn’t be sure, because there was little or no change in the plane’s flight other than a slight change in the plane’s speed but not its rate of descent, and none of us would have been any wiser had the pilot, in his usual calm manner, not told us there was a small problem with one of the engines but there was no problem with landing, and we would be on the ground in ten minutes.

In fact, the landing was, as any other I’d been on, flawless, even though I was sure I heard a slight stutter in the other ending, but by that time we were on the ground.

The only difference between this and any other landing was the accompaniment of several emergency services trucks, and the fact we were not going to a gate. Instead, we were taken to a bay not far from the runways, and then calmly taken off the plane.

From the ground, just before being loaded onto a bus, I could see the plane, and it looked the same as it had any other time.

What did bother me was several words spoken by what looked to be an engineer. He said, “That plane was literally flying on vapor. What you’re seeing is 228 of the luckiest people in the world.”

If ever there was an excuse to buy a lottery ticket…

Writing about writing a book – Day 14 Continues

Whilst Davenport’s backstory is now coming together, I’m back with the main character, and working on a bit of his backstory too, mainly what he is about to remember of his past, locked away for many years, most likely caused by the trauma he suffered at the hands of the enemy, though the definition of ‘enemy’ here will have a number of different meanings.

These first dreams are disjointed but point to one certainty, Bill was, for a time, a prisoner, whether it was as a prisoner of war, or something else, he is yet to discover.

Another certainty he will learn in time is that he holds a secret, a secret several people would like to find out about, and who will go to extreme lengths to get it from him.

This memory fragment confirms he was a prisoner, despite the assurances to the contrary:

I woke suddenly, tense, eyes open, and alert. I could feel the fear coursing through my veins, every nerve end tingling.

I had only one thought in mind.

Escape.

Now.

Before it started again.

I moved my hand and found it strapped down as was my other hand and my legs. I was barely able to move.

A sudden jolt of pain went through me, starting at my shoulder where the knife had been dug in and twisted, the memory of which was very clear in my mind. It increased as I struggled against the restraints, the fear of it happening again stirring me to try harder.

I’d been here before and the result was bad.

Very bad.

I struggled harder.

I looked around and saw no one or anything else. The room seemed different from the one I last remembered, more closed in, claustrophobic. The light came on, bright neon lights, blinding me. The flash I got before I closed my eyes, it was a hospital room. I was captive, and it was after the torture session, where the doctors put me back together just enough to last the next session.

Torture, recovery, torture, recovery, over and over, night, day, light, dark, warm, cold. I had no idea where I was, what day, week, month, or year it was, when I’d last eaten, or eaten at all.

And I didn’t know why.

Why they didn’t kill me and get it over with. I didn’t know anything.

The door opened and I opened my eyes, now a little more adjusted to the bright light. He came over and looked down at me.

Chinese.

The enemy.

One of the insidious men keeping me alive.

I kept my eyes on him as he looked at the folder beside the bed, and checked my vital signs.

“How are we this morning?”

English, with only a trace of a Chinese accent. They all spoke nearly perfect English, confusing me, making me think I was safe. That I would talk to them. Confide in them.

I didn’t feel safe and I had nothing to say.

“You had a very bad night.”

Tell me something I didn’t know. I struggled against the restraints.

“They’re for your own protection. You tried to get out of bed and reopened your wound. I’m sorry, but we have had to restrain you.”

“Let me go,” I hissed, “or kill me.”

“I assure you no one wants to kill you.”

I didn’t believe him. He was trying to trick me. Trying to allay my fears. I knew all of their tricks now.

I had to escape. I had to get away or die trying. I could not take another session. Not in that dark, dank, evil room.

I tried harder to escape, felt the restraining hands of his friends, holding me down as he administered another injection, silence, and darkness closing in once again.

Still not sure where this is going, but it’s defining the past of our main character, and will become a lot clearer as the story progresses.

I am intending for these dreams, if extracted and put in order, will be the basis of the missing past the main character has not been able to remember, and given how horrific some of them are, it’s no surprise they’ve been buried very deep in his subconscious.

Searching for locations: The Silk Factory, Suzhou, China

China is renowned for its exquisite silk, so naturally, a visit to the Silk Spinning Factory is part of today’s tour.

After that, we will be heading downtown to an unspecified location where we’re getting a boat ride, walk through a typical Chinese shopping experience, and coffee at a coffee shop that is doubling as the meeting place, after we soak up the local atmosphere.

The problem with that is that if the entire collective trip a deal tourists take this route then the savvy shopkeepers will jack up their prices tenfold because we’re tourists with money. It’ll be interesting to see how expensive everything is.

So…

Before we reach the silk factory, we are told that Suzhou is the main silk area of China, and we will be visiting a nearly 100 years old, Suzhou No 1 Silk Mill, established in 1926. Suzhou has a 4,700-year history of making silk products. It is located at No. 94, Nanmen Road, Suzhou, Jiangsu, China.

Then we arrive at the Silk Factory, another government-owned establishment with a castiron guarantee of quality and satisfaction.

The look and feel of the doona cover certainly backs up that claim

And the colors and variety is amazing (as is the cost of those exquisite sets)

We get to see the silk cocoon stretched beyond imagination, and see how the silk thread is extracted, then off to the showroom for the sales pitch.

It isn’t a hard sell, and the sheets, doonas, pillows, and pillowcases, are reasonably priced, and come with their own suitcase (for free) so you can take them with you, or free shipping, by slow boat, if you prefer not to take the goods with you.

We opt for the second choice, as there’s no room left in our baggage after packing the Chinese Medicine.

NaNoWriMo 2021 – Day 24

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A score to settle

…

I’ve come to the realization that I’m not going to get this story finished in the allotted time.

In fact, there are aspects of the story that have been bugging me, and it’s been the devil’s own job not to go back and fix some of it up. It’s probably why today’s output is terrible compared to previous days.

What I have done, as elements of the previous part of the story have had to be changed so that what happens later makes sense, I have a copious quantity of post-it notes on the desktop to remind me.

And that tells me that the whole project is getting out of hand.

As it stands, at a guestimate, this story is going to finish up over 100,000 words. If I meet the targets I’ve set myself for the rest of the month, that 30th November total should be around 85,000 words.

It’s an achievement in itself, but I’m not happy with the product as it stands. There’s going to be a huge editing blitz next month if I can face it.

As for now, it’s about 2 am and I’m very tired, I’ve just thought of another change that needs to be made, so I’m going to scribble it down and get to bed.

Thank goodness I don’t try to write all my books in a month!

…

Today’s word count: 1,764 words, for the running total of 63,514.

That helicopter story that kept me awake – Episode 29

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

I had to wonder if Lallo had already called the number on the phone he had handed Jacobi, and then considered, if that was the case, there would be no need for Jacobi to call anyone. Or Lallo had got an answer, just not the answer he was expecting.

Jacobi looked at the phone, and I got the impression he was weighing his options. The first was how long Lallo would hold him in custody. That I think we could both assumed to be forever if necessary. There was, no doubt, a cell at a black site with his name on it already. The second, if he did call his contact, would that contact co-operate, though it was hard what it was Lallo was expecting Jacobi’s co-operation for.

But there was no doubt Lallo had a plan.

Jacobi took a moment to consider any further options I hadn’t thought of, and then made the call. We were only going to get one side of the call.

A raised eyebrow indicated Jacobi had an answer on the other end.

“It’s me.”

Why did everyone say it’s me when asked to identify themselves, or as in the case announce themselves?

“No. An unfortunate set of circumstances, and a gross breach of our agreement. I am supposed to have autonomy of operations at home. These bumbling idiots may have blown my cover.”

Somehow, the fact he was sitting in a small room told me his cover was more than likely a myth. If this was our supposed point man in the failed operation I’d been on, then I could see why it cost a lot of good men their lives.

He had been playing both sides of the fence and sold us out.

“You would have to ask them.”

A moment later he handed the phone to Lallo. “Prepare to die,” was all Jacobi said.

It didn’t move Lallo in the slightest,

He took the phone and asked, “Whom am I speaking to?”

The expression change told me that it was most likely none of his business.

“This man is responsible for the deaths of a good many men.” A minute’s silence, then, “I doubt that would be the case considering the number of phones and their credentials. He had been playing you, and perhaps many others.”

The silence was a lot longer, but the expressions changing by the minute told me that Lallo was not going to get what he wanted.

“No, that is not going to happen, not in the circumstances you describe. I will be sending him back, yes, but for another mission. I think it’s time you realized he’s been feeding you false intel for some time.” Silence again, then, “By the time you do, he will no longer be here, there. I’m sorry.”

He disconnected the call and put the phone back in the plastic evidence bag.

Then he sat, and gave Jacobi a long, hard stare.

No effect.

“What is happening,” Jacobi finally asked.

“You’re going home.”

“Good. I expect once I get back there you will leave me alone.”

“On the contrary, Mr Jacobi, you will not be going back alone. In fact, I’m sending you back with my team, and we are going to extract the same people you were supposed to help us extract the last time.”

“I had nothing to do with that. It was simply your incompetence.”

“Be that as it may, you will do as I ask.”

“You are a fool. Why would I do anything for you, and especially since they are both probably dead now, or, if not, past the point of saving.”

“You will then want to hope that isn’t the case, simply because if they are, then three members of your family will be executed. You can say goodbye to them before you leave, or tell them you will see them again, it’s your choice.”

Lallo, it seems, was no fool, and had ensured he had the necessary leverage. There was no mistaking the shock on Jacobi’s face.

“You lie.”

Lallo got up from his seat and knocked on the door. It opened and two men brought in a large screen connected to a computer on a trolley. They moved it to the vacant wall and left. Lallo pressed several keys and a picture came up on the screen. A woman and two small children, and judging from the expression on Jacobi’s face, exactly who he was hoping he would not see.

There were two hooded soldiers either side with guns loosely pointing in their direction.

“One word from me, and they will be shot. Considering the treachery you have perpetrated, it’s taking a great deal of restraint for me not to give the order to kill them.”

He took a few seconds to regain his composure. “This serves no purpose,” Jacobi said in a rising pitch, “your people are most likely dead. It has been a long time.”

“I don’t think so. We have word from a different source, a more reliable source, that they are still alive. Barely, but alive, serving a life sentence for treason. And helping the General with information. All you need to do is get a small team of mine in and assist them to effect an escape. They come home alive and, well, your family lives. They don’t come back alive, well, I don’t think that’s an option, is it?”

Jacobi was in an invidious position of being damned if he did help us, or damned if he didn’t. Either way, it didn’t guarantee his co-operation or assistance. Painted into a corner, sometimes people like Jacobi chose the easy road, sacrificing everything to stay alive. No doubt, until this predicament, he was well in favour with Bahti, and from what I’d heard, Bahti was not a man to cross. There was a graveyard in the prison that was full of the remains of his enemies. And people who were once his friends.

I knew firsthand what it was like to be between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and unfortunately, there was no upside. No doubt the team leader of this new folly would have orders to shoot Jacobi once his work was done. Lallo would not be able to leave a man in his position alive because of what he knew.

And from my perspective, I felt sorry for the team Lallo had selected to go on what could quite possibly be another suicide mission.