The truth landed with crushing weight. This entire event was a targeted trap designed by the very organization that killed Ronald, and they had endangered three hundred civilians just to force me into the air.
They believed they had trapped a grieving mother in a tube at forty thousand feet. They had no idea they had just placed the controls of a three hundred ton airliner into the hands of an elite combat commander.
PART 3: PREPARING THE TRAP
“Type the new navigation points into the flight computer,” the leader instructed, shoving the cold muzzle of his gun directly into my shoulder blade. “Turn off the main locator beacon and disconnect the satellite communications line right now.”
“I am typing them in,” I replied softly, letting my voice quiver just enough to sound thoroughly intimidated.
My fingers moved over the terminal keys, entering the new coordinates that pulled our flight path away from standard European airways and sent us heading south toward the open expanse of the sea.
I played the role of a terrified hostage perfectly, keeping my posture hunched and my eyes fixed on the display panels.
They assumed six years of quiet living had softened my edges and removed my combat training. They assumed grief had made me weak and predictable.
They failed to understand that a combat pilot does not just operate an aircraft, but knows how to use its physical mass as a weapon.
As I entered their coordinates, my left hand reached down toward the lower radio panel hidden behind my torso.
I did not attempt a loud voice call over the emergency channels because that would have ended in a bullet. Instead, using a rapid combination of keys I had memorized over years of combat flights, I routed the universal high alert emergency signal through an automated weather transmission directly to an orbital military satellite.
The distress signal was sent, but I knew support would take at least forty minutes to intercept our position.
Help was too far away, and three loaded weapons were pointed at my head. I could not overcome three armed mercenaries in close quarters with bare hands, so I needed to violently manipulate the environment around us.
I glanced toward the weather radar glowing on the primary instrument screen.
Directly along our path, hidden in the pitch black expanse of the night sky, sat a massive storm system rising to forty thousand feet. It was a dense tower of wind shear, vertical draft vectors, and violent atmospheric pressure changes.
Commercial pilots spend their lives avoiding such severe weather systems because they can damage an airframe. Fighter pilots use them as cover to drop off enemy targeting systems.
“There is severe turbulence directly along this vector,” I said, pointing to a small outer cloud ring while ignoring the massive storm core. “I need to turn ten degrees west to keep the ride smooth.”
“You will not turn,” the leader barked back, pressing the barrel harder into my back. “Fly straight through it because we do not have time for detours.”
“Understood,” I whispered meekly. “Flying straight ahead.”
I moved my hands down toward my lap under the pretense of adjusting my seat position. I found the heavy safety harness straps and clicked them securely across my chest, pulling the nylon belts as tight as possible against my torso.
I looked over at Captain Raymond. He was an experienced aviator who understood exactly what the radar screen was showing.
I caught his gaze and tapped my index finger twice against the throttle casing, giving him the universal military signal to prepare for immediate heavy impact.
Captain Raymond understood instantly and quietly tightened his own harness straps while gripping his armrests with white knuckles.
I gripped the heavy control column with both hands, watching the digital instruments count down the distance as the nose of the plane entered the outer wall of the storm cell.
PART 4: ATMOSPHERIC EXECUTIONS
The storm hit the heavy jet like a solid wall.
The smooth flight vanished instantly as wind shear grabbed the airframe, causing the metal hull to groan under immense physical pressure. Thick clouds enveloped the cockpit, illuminated by blinding flashes of internal lightning.
The aircraft surged upward fifty feet before dropping violently through a pocket of dead air.
“Keep this plane level!” the leader shouted, losing his composure as his polished shoes slipped against the floor grating. He reached out frantically with his free arm to catch the back of my seat.
Behind him, the two mercenaries stumbled into the rear bulkhead, struggling to keep their balance while holding their heavy rifles.
“Secure your restraints,” I whispered softly into the roaring darkness of the cockpit.
I did not try to keep the plane level.
I reached out and hit the disengage switch on the flight computer, taking complete manual control of the heavy airliner.
With both hands on the column, I shoved the controls completely forward toward the main console panel.
I forced the three hundred ton aircraft into a steep, negative gravity nose dive toward the water below.
The sudden drop eliminated artificial gravity inside the flight deck instantly.
The leader was ripped off his feet, launching upward like a projectile and slamming face first into the hard metal ceiling above my seat. His suppressed pistol slipped from his grip, floating uselessly through the air.
The two mercenaries in the rear were thrown violently against the overhead storage panels, their rifles drifting away from their hands as they thrashed in zero gravity.
The cockpit erupted into chaotic noise as warning horns began to sound across the main panel.
PULL UP. TERRAIN. PULL UP. TERRAIN.
While the jet plunged toward the sea at five hundred miles per hour with the altitude display dropping rapidly, I remained locked firmly in my pilot seat by the tight harness.
I reached out with my left hand and unhooked the heavy emergency axe from its bracket on the side wall.
The leader floated upside down near the ceiling, bleeding from his face and staring down at me with wide eyes filled with absolute terror. The syndicate operative finally understood the magnitude of his mistake and realized who was sitting in the pilot seat.
He was not looking at a helpless widow. He was staring at an elite combat aviator.
I did not offer a warning or hesitate for a second.
I swung the heavy steel axe upward, striking him squarely in the chest plate of his tactical vest. The kinetic blow drove his body backward across the small room, slamming him unconscious against the reinforced exit door.