Chapter

david.r.king

Chapter Eight

Indian Ocean, 38,000 feet

Jake Crosby slumped wearily into a window seat for the three-hour flight from Sydney to Auckland. He was pissed off. It was late in the afternoon that his overbearing, bully of a boss instructed him to ‘get his backside’ over to Auckland and sort out the ‘shitty fucking broken computers.’

Working for an international freight company meant air-travel, long haul at that, but today of all days was a surprise and an inconvenience. Jake was looking forward to a few drinks with work buddies at a noisy downtown bar and then onto his favourite Tai restaurant followed by Vodka shots at a rowdy late-night club. Who knows what mischief was waiting.

But here he was at 6pm, a hurriedly packed overnight bag in the overhead, an out of date Subway sandwich, a giant packet of Mintos and his battered, old reliable IBM Thinkpad laptop, bound for the Auckland office to figure out why the company's freight system had suddenly gone offline. .

He tried awkwardly to get comfortable, but his lanky 6ft 4inch frame was having none of it. At thirty-two years old he’d already developed a mild stoop, no doubt as a result of the rigours of travelling, cooped up in cattle class; long haul. He buckled in and peered out of the window. A late afternoon storm front was chucking it down. A torrent descended without let up. Streams of rainwater snaked crazily around the window. A reassuring ‘clunk’ and muffled PA announcement of ‘cross-check’ signalled the closing of the cabin door and the push-back of the shiny new Airbus 320, call sign Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo. The plane joined the fleet earlier that week. It had the smell of a new luxury car unspoilt by the sweat and body odours of thousands of passengers. And at a cost in excess of $76 million, decked out in the airline's new corporate colours, lime-green and cardinal-red, it looked cool, swanky, sharp. However, the tight-fisted twenty-eight-inch rake economy seats were a punishment no matter what.

It was a glacial taxi from the stand to the apron of runway 31. Pilots John Macy and Dan King had bags of time for the arduous pre-flight checks. Both had completed long hours in the simulators to prepare for the arrival of the updated fly-by-wire Airbus 320. This was the future of passenger aircraft, jam packed with the latest AI and advanced technology, originally developed for the military. 'Wow, now don't this look fancy,' said Dan as he scanned the all-digital instrument panel. The GE turbofans started their warm-up cycle. ‘Good, the suits gave us that time in the sim. This is some crazy shit. I’m not sure who’s in charge. Do you get the feeling we’re going to be made redundant any time soon?’.

Dan had logged three years commercial flying in the right-hand chair. He was a no-nonsense seat-of-the-pants pilot having gone solo on his seventeenth birthday in a beaten-up Cessna 150 in Cleveland, Ohio. He could put the battered 150 – the seats were ripped to shreds and held together with duct tape – down in any field and half the length of a football pitch. His quick-reactions had proven a lifesaver on one occasion after the Lycoming straight four spluttered had then gone and quit at two-hundred-and-fifty-feet downwind. Dan pulled off a greaser leaving a signature tyre mark on the corner of a hangar while negotiating a 180-degree turn. After that stunt, he was a local legend. He gained the instructor's rating, notching up the mandatory hours with tedious touch-and-goes while teaching a bunch of PPL students. Most seemed hell-bent on killing him , they slamming the Cessna into the rutted grass runway with careless abandon. Sometimes it was a miracle that he walked away. Dan emptied his entire savings and, with a colossal bank loan, relocated to a seedy motel in Florida for six months, to study for the FAA Commercial license. Now, aged twenty-seven, he was at the controls of a spanking new Airbus 320 with the plastic covers still on the seats. Life was sweet.

Captain John Macy, ‘Mac’ to his friends, was way past his sell by date, ready for retirement, fanatically counting down the days to the final sortie. Thirty-two ardous years of military flying followed by thousands of commercial long hauls had taken its toll. Three dysfunctional marriages later, a son and daughter who refused to speak to him, and a crippling bad back brought on by hours of sitting up front, were just a few of his malcontents and complaints. Today his lower lumbar was tearing up badly. A handful of 1000g paracetamols were having zero effect. He reached between his legs, jerking the seat forward for take-off..

‘Well, they've done nothing to make these damn chairs any more comfortable,’ moaned Mac. ‘You know they cost like $100,000 each. For what? My back still hurts like hell. Its a good thing this is a short three-hour flight.’ Mac flipped down polarised sun visors on his steel frame Ray Ban glasses and buckled up. The Airbus was positioned on the centre line for runway 31. The wind was howling from the south at 45 knots, gusting a hooley. ‘Give her the beans for positive rotate. I wanna get out of this ground turbulence quickly,' said Mac. 'That guy in the sim said these bigger engines mean she goes like shit off a shovel.’ Grabbing the throttle levers, the pilots coaxed the engines to maximum power. The plane hesitated until the static lag of the thirty-thousand pounds thrust from the GE turbofans kicked in. Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo thundered down the runway in a wake of mist, 35 mph crosswind and a relentless pounding rain. At one-hundred-and-forty knots, she was V1 for rotate. Moments later the wheels were up, flaps retracted, and Starbucks blend coffee was brewing in the galley. .

There were one hundred and forty-three souls on board. It was 4.15 local time, 12.15 GMT in London. Flight DG416 punched through the thick cumulus clouds at seventeen thousand feet, suffused in the glorious late afternoon hue of Azure blue on a heading of one-hundred-and-sixty degrees SW. Jake peered out of the window. The pastel coloured horizon improved his mood. A bit. .

Jake Crosby, unwrapped his Subway sandwich, and mentally planned out the evening schedule. He’d be on the ground in Auckland by 7 pm; checked in at the nearest hotel thirty minutes later, and still have time for Sushi before catching re-runs of Breaking Bad on Netflix while raiding the minibar on expenses. Walter White was the man. Watching the series second time around meant that he wouldn’t stay up all night binging. It was still addictive though. Obsessive. Just like crystal meth. .

Back in the cockpit, there was the routine in-flight housekeeping as Mac and Dan went through multiple checklists on their I-Pads. The paperless office had arrived, albeit at above the clouds. The Qvadis AI autopilot was fully engaged and DG416 was on its heading, en-route to waypoint one.

Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo was stuffed with the very latest AI technology. The aircraft's management system was delegated to no less than eight separate AI systems which forensically monitored every inch of the airliner – inside and out. The system kept a watchful eye second by second, never requiring sleep or trips to the bathroom. At thirty-eight-thousand-feet the aircraft had zero need for human interaction..

The Airbus was fitted with the newest Sky Cloud Navigation, transmitting a constant stream of real-time data to low orbit satellites. The technology developed after several passenger planes mysteriously vanished during flight. Without a trace. Malaysian jet MH370 disappeared from the radar screens with two-hundred-and-fifty-six passengers on board. The airliner made unplanned and unexplained course changes over the expansive Indian Ocean before vanishing. MH370 and its elusive black box never turned up. The reason for the airliner’s crash was held hostage on the black box somewhere at the bottom of the Indian ocean. .

The solution was a network of low orbit satellites which airliners reported their stats in real time. It was a costly upgrade for the airlines. The aviation authorities gave operators a one-year moratorium to retro-fit their fleets and stump up a hefty annual subscription to Sky Cloud Incorporated, a subsidiary of a recent start-up company: Qvadis AI Flight DG416 had two waypoints on the flight plan to Auckland. Dan leaned over to the console and checked the entries in the AI nav system. The flight time was little over three hours; enough fuel on board for four plus. Insurance for the tedious ATC delays at most airports..

At a cruising altitude of thirty-eight-thousand-feet, they were miles above the violent summer storms swirling below. The sun was sinking slowly over the horizon, and the weather radar showed clear air all the way to Auckland. ‘Okay, we’re all set,’ said Dan, looking over to Mac who was fiddling with the head-up display, trying to find the airspeed indicator. .

‘Where the hell is the ASI, Dan? In the sim it was down in the bottom right-hand corner. God, I hate this stuff already.’ Mac was an old dog. These were new tricks. ‘You can set the head ups just how you want them,’ replied Dan. ‘Go into settings mode and you can choose a custom layout. Cool eh’’ .

Stretching across the centre console, Dan clicked on the main menu screen. ‘Oh, for chrissake, leave it,’ barked Mac. His back pain hadn’t eased. ‘I don't know what the hell was wrong with the old layout. To check the ASI - it was here. Altimeter – always right there.’ Mac stabbed his finger accusingly at the curved flat-screen instrument panel.

‘Get used to it, Mac. Welcome to the future, man. Sooner or later, we’ll be out of a job, ' laughed Dan. 'You know what these AI nerds say. You need three things to fly a plane: a dog, a computer and a pilot. The computer flies the plane. The pilot feeds the dog and the dog bites the pilot if he starts touching the controls.' It was the only joke he could ever remember. He chuckled. ‘This tech is just the start of it., Mac. Twenty, hey maybe even in ten years, we’ll be all gone. History. Toast. And as long as I've got enough to pay off my tuition loans, buy my house on a lake in Minnesota, then I’ll be happy flying hoppers somewhere in the Caribbean six months of the years for those wealthy bankers.’.

‘Screw that,' replied Mac popping two 500 mg Advil. ' It’s a good thing them I'm done next July. Can't come soon enough for me. ' ‘Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo, do you read? This is Sydney ATC. Over.’ The radio jumped into life. ‘Go ahead Sydney this is Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo. Over,’ replied Mac. ‘Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo, switch frequencies to Auckland. You’re leaving our airspace on heading 172 degrees. Please confirm. Over,’ said the controller. ‘Confirmed, Sydney switching to Auckland heading of . . . 162 degrees. Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo. Over’ ‘Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo we have you on a heading of 172. That's one seventy-two . . . No, sorry make those one seventy-five degrees. Please confirm. Over.’ ‘Alpha-Golf-Sierra-Echo our instruments are showing 162 and stable. There are electrical storms in the area which may be causing radar interference. We’re on track. GPS Sky Cloud systems confirm arrival at the next waypoint in twenty-two minutes. Switching to Auckland ATC. Good evening. Over and out.’ Dan glanced over to Mac. ‘That's odd. Looking good here and on a heading of 162 degrees.’ ‘Give me a proper old-fashioned compass anytime,’ scowled Mac pointing to the back-up magnetic compass mounted on the dash. It was comforting retro; almost a homely feel for the old-dog. Dan re-checked the navigation system, confirming the coordinates with the Satellite GPS and the Skycloud AI unit. A ten-degree fluctuation off course would see them heading out into the Indian Ocean. He peered out of a side window. A thick cloud cover had settled in twelve-thousand feet below. With the final whispers of the evening light, they would be flying dumb-blind without instrumentation..

Back in the main cabin, Jake flicked through the pointless traveller magazine, advertising junk that nobody ever bought. He’d studied the laminated safety card for no special reason before opening his ThinkPad and jumping onto the complimentary in-flight Wi-Fi. He was amazed that at a cruising altitude of 38,000 feet he could get a more-than-decent 150 Mbps download speed. That was twice as fast as Jake got at his downtown apartment back in Sydney..

Jake left the office just a few hours earlier, but a rush of emails, maybe more than 200 hundred, pinged incessantly. His gaze was drawn to one mail headed ‘System Fatal Crash - JAKE, PLEASE RESPOND.’ The sender had used a bold font for extra effect. He didn't care much for capital letters in emails, texts or messages. Almost in a sixth sense moment, he had an uneasy feeling about the email. Jake might need more than a simple overnight bag in Auckland. It could be long haul, after all.