Flight and Prejudice

Business Class Lounge, Saudia Terminal, King Abdulaziz International Airport, Jeddah, Friday 4 February, 2022, 23:00AST

Sipping his coffee beneath the bright LED ceiling light, Damien White knew the stark feature illumination would show off the single gold stripe on his sleeve to the best effect, against the deep black of his airline pilot’s jacket. He had chosen a chair close to the business class lounge’s dead centre, where he could make the best impression on the admirers he knew would be watching. Centre stage, almost. Damien had always enjoyed playing to the crowd, ever since his school days. Now he had achieved his life’s ambition: he was a real live airline pilot. After acing his line training, he had secured a job on Boeing Triple Sevens with Saudi Arabian Airlines, renowned for the egalitarian, international make-up of their flight crew. Truth be told, the only thing wrong with Saudia was the absence of alcohol on board, and that certainly didn’t bother the pilots.

His parents had expressed their worries about his career decision. Saudi Arabia was full of terrorists, wasn’t it? Was that not where the nine-eleven suicide hijackers had all come from? Couldn’t Damien get a job with British Airways or another western airline? He had smiled and humoured them. He could not expect them to understand. They had lived all their lives in the insular bubble of the United Kingdom. The best thing Damien had ever done was to leave his native island and see the world. Everyone was the same, he’d realised. All the different cultures, races, religions, they didn’t really make any difference. The same things made everyone tick. He had a better understanding now of what really mattered than he had ever had during his formative years in England.

Glancing around the room in search of adulation, preferably female, Damien made brief, unwitting and unwelcome eye contact with a young man in the corner of the room, who appeared to be staring. No threat, Damien’s instinct told him. Insignificant gawper, impressed by the uniform. Ignore him. He will get bored and go away.

Aboudeh Aziz had spotted Damien’s sleeve stripe, although he doubted anyone would notice him, a young Middle Eastern man, bearded, tanned, handsome. From the shadows at the far side of the business class lounge, he carefully studied the smartly dressed pilot, a typical first officer early in his career. Perhaps the man would be at the controls of Aboudeh’s flight, Saudi Arabian Airlines 113 to London Heathrow. Aboudeh knew, having checked carefully on the Flight Radar 24 app, that tonight’s airframe was a Boeing 777-300, registration HZ-AK26. He pictured the young man in the right seat on the T7’s spacious flight deck. Aboudeh had taken a course of flying lessons himself and, having spent thousands of hours on Microsoft’s Flight Simulator X, and Lockheed’s Prepar3d, he had a pretty good idea of what went on behind the closed flight deck door. He had taken a particular interest in the controls and flight systems of the triple seven. The flight management system, instrumentation and autopilot were typical Boeing, having much in common with the 737 New Generation, and the now outmoded 747-400. Aboudeh was sure he could handle any one of the big Boeings, if the need were to arise. He checked his wristwatch. Almost time to make a move to the boarding gate.

Flight SV113, Stand 1 Apron 1, King Abdulaziz International Airport, Jeddah, Saturday 5 February, 2022, 01:30AST

At the L1 door of the T7, the veiled stewardess handed back Aboudeh Aziz’s boarding card stub, smiled mechanically and instantly forgot he existed, turning her attention to the next passenger. Well, Aboudeh thought, there was a pretty face behind that veil, if the eyes were anything to go on, and he’d make it his business to make sure she remembered him later that night, when he made his move. 

Stepping forward through the galley, about to turn down the aisle, Aboudeh glanced to his left and saw the flight deck door was open. There was the same man he’d eyeballed in the lounge, his left side visible in profile through the aperture, that same svelte sleeve with single gold stripe. For a moment, the man turned and again they made eye contact, their separate thoughts coruscating, each feeling fleetingly for the other’s mind. Dark intent, pure white innocence, routine, procedure a challenge, a standoff, a thousand questions in a heartbeat. Damien turned back to his flight log and pre-departure checklists. Aboudeh, jaw set and heart pumping, made down the left aisle of the wide-bodied jet, toward seat 04B, his plans and thoughts awhirl.

“Ground equipment is removed; you are clear to start two and one on the push.” The ground engineer’s voice sounded in both pilots’ headsets.

Captain Khaled Attieh clicked the flight deck to ground mike button. “Thank you, parking brake released.” He flicked off the parking brake and the giant aircraft began to move backward, pushed by the tow truck connected to the nose gear.

Captain Khaled reached upward and pulled the number two engine start knob on the overhead panel. Checking the central EICAS to confirm increasing oil pressure, he clicked up the fuel cutoff switch on the centre pedestal to Run. “Monitor two,” he ordered. Damien nodded and complied. Captain Khaled repeated the procedure for engine one, as the thrumming vibration of engine two’s run-up reverberated through the airframe.

“Two good starts, thanks and have a good day.” Captain Khaled glanced through the left cockpit window as the ground engineer held up the nose gear locking pin, his open palm indicating all ground connections clear. Khaled waved in acknowledgment.

“Saudia 113, clear to taxi,” came the voice of the ground controller. In response to Khaled’s nod, Damien clicked his mike button to acknowledge. Khaled advanced the throttles slightly and the big jet began to move along the taxiway toward the threshold of runway 34L.

“Saudia 113, clear take off 34 left, wind 320, 6 knots.”

“Clear take off, winds copied,” responded Damien. Captain Khaled advanced the throttles and engaged TOGA mode. The two Rolls-Royce Trents responded to the flight management system and spooled up, first gently, then in a rising shriek, as the T7 barrelled off up the runway.

“Eighty knots,” called out Damien. Then, “V1. Rotate.”

The massive jet passed decision speed, V1 - the speed at which there was insufficient runway to stop, should they need to - and, a moment later, VR, the speed at which the handling pilot should pull gently back on the control column, rotating the aircraft to lift-off attitude. With practised skill, Khaled kept the vulnerable tail of the 777-300, the longest civil airframe in service, away from the runway surface, raising the aircraft’s nose smoothly until the main gear left the pavement and the radio altimeter confirmed they were airborne.

“Positive climb,” reported Damien.

“Gear up,” responded Khaled. Damien moved the lever to its upper position and the big jet’s nose gear clunked up into the well below their feet.

“Centre autopilot to Command.”

Damien pushed the button below the glare shield. Khaled released the control column and the aircraft’s flight management system began to fly the standard instrument departure they had previously programmed in. Flight SV113 was well and truly under way.

Flight SV113, Flight Level 340 (34,000 feet), over Mediterranean Sea, Saturday 5 February, 2022, 03:30AST

Not long after the flight reached cruise altitude, and the big engines settled back from climb thrust to cruise power, the killer set his scheme into action. He had been planning it for months, after all. A glutinous red blob of Captain Khaled’s blood plopped onto the pedestal next to the ILS radio, as the killer slit his throat with a flourish and a triumphant snarl. The glass of a mobile phone made a very effective knife, if you knew how to prepare it the day before and how to take it surreptitiously out of its surround when the time came.

No response to the captain’s death came from the first officer’s seat, for two reasons. One was that the first officer’s seat was empty. The second reason was that the murderer was the first officer himself.

A cold smile upon his lips, Damien White made sure that the autopilot was still in command and the flight was proceeding normally. Next, he checked that his captain was dead. Breathing had stopped; he could detect no pulse. Damien reached down and moved both fuel cutoff switches to OFF. The twin engines instantly began to run down, the autopilot lowering the aircraft’s nose to maintain airspeed.

Aboudeh Aziz had long since given up hope of success. That is, if he had ever really had any hope. The stewardess he’d had the hots for had turned out to be pretty miserable and cold, when he’d tried to engage her in conversation during drinks service. Ah well. Plenty more fish in the sea. Speaking of which, he reckoned they must be over the Mediterranean by now.

And then he’d felt it. The sudden weightlessness as the aircraft dropped, and the engines’ thrust fading away as they throttled back. Something was wrong. They could be nowhere near scheduled top of descent. Perhaps they were descending to avoid bad weather. But no, the rate of descent was increasing. Pressure on his ears and no sound from the engines. Something was wrong. Aboudeh was out of his seat, bounding down the aisle. His ex favourite stewardess blocked his way. “Sir, you need to take your seat.”

“Madam, if I take my seat, we shall probably all die. I am a qualified pilot. Get out of my way.”

Aboudeh reached the implacable barrier of the flight deck door. The chief purser, and half the cabin crew, were at his shoulder. “Something is wrong on the flight deck. We should not be descending this fast, not at this stage of the flight. Get this door open.”

His pinup stewardess again. “Sir, the flight deck door is locked in flight and access is not allowed. Permission can only…”

The chief purser interrupted. “Sir, do you have a commercial pilot’s licence?”

Aboudeh nodded, “Yes, I do. Now get that door open while I still have a chance of saving this flight.”

The purser opened a panel near the forward lavatory and entered a passcode. There was a click and the flight deck door swung open an inch. Aboudeh shouldered the door aside and burst onto the flight deck. 

His teeth bared in a feral snarl, Damien White shoved the control column forward. “Allahu akbar! Allahu Akbar!” he yelled.

Aboudeh wasted no time. “Cabin crew, restrain the first officer with wrist ties, NOW!”

The whole crew sparked into action. In an instant, Aboudeh Aziz had become their captain. Damien White fought his best but was quickly subdued by the purser and crew, arms pinioned behind his back, hustled to an empty seat and seat belted in, unable to do a thing to free himself.

Aboudeh banged the pedestal fuel cutoff switches up to Run and reached up to pull the engine start knobs to Flight Start. His hand still on the overhead panel, he turned the auxiliary power unit knob to Start. As power came back to the hydraulics, Aboudeh eased the control column back to arrest the behemoth’s descent. 

The aircraft achieved stable, level flight at flight level 280, twenty-eight thousand feet. To cut a potentially long story much shorter, Aboudeh contacted Eurocontrol via the frequency still set on the COM1 radio and stated his intention to land the flight at the nearest suitable field. He was duly given clearance and instructions for approach and landing at Athens Venizelos airport, runway 03 right, where the wide-body touched down without further incident at 03:47 local time.

Aboudeh and his favourite stewardess were married three months later; their first child was born six months after that. Both learned, to their lifelong advantage, not to trust first impressions.