Hello everyone. This is the rewritten first chapter of my first Zootopia Fanfiction, "Flight 1917". Thanks to clearskies95 for giving me advice throughout this story, and I hope you enjoy reading this story.
Clear Skies and smooth landings,
Peter
Beep, Beep, Beep, Bang!
And that sent the Nokia Lumia, alarm and all flying off of the bedside table, but the beeping continued, because it is a Nokia, and as such, is virtually indestructible. After fumbling around in a half asleep state, Peter managed to disable the alarm, before trying to figure out why he had set it.
After making himself a cup of coffee, and trying to figure out why he set the alarm to such an ungodly time for fifteen minutes, clarity struck him.
"Oh yeah, Ivan and I have to do the delivery flight of the Il-86 to the Smithsonian today"
Peter and Ivan (an old friend of Peter's) volunteered to fly Aeroflot's last Il-86 to the Smithsonian a few months earlier, with Peter being the captain and Ivan being the First Officer of the flight from Irkutsk to Washington Reagan Airport via Shannon. Looking up at the clock, Peter realised that, at the latest he would have to get going in half an hour. He put on his uniform quickly, and looked around the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. His eyes landed on a photograph on his bedside table. He walked over and picked it up. It was a picture of Ivan, himself and five other people standing in front of a Tupolev Tu-95. Peter smiled sadly, before putting the picture into his pocket and left his apartment at the outskirts of Cork, locking the door behind him, before heading to Cork Kent station to catch his train from Cork to Limerick Junction, then to Sixmilebridge Station, which is a half an hour bus ride from Shannon.
Peter walked through the historic city of Cork, too engrossed in thought to notice passing some of Cork's most famous landmarks, including Cork City Gaol and the Shandon tower. He only emerged from his own world when he was on the platform of Kent Station. Checking the timetable he saw that his train will leave in five minutes. He sat down on a bench while he waited for his train to pull into the station.
Right on time, five minutes later, the train pulled in. Grabbing his bag Peter boarded the train, before showing the conductor his ticket.
"So, why're you headed to such a remote station this early?" asked the conductor with a smile.
Returning the smile, Peter responded "I'll be taking an old aircraft across the Atlantic from Shannon for the Smithsonian"
The conductor looked a bit surprised, before asking "So, you're a pilot?"
Peter, still smiling, replied with "Yes, I'm a captain for Aeroflot."
"Oh, that must be a great job" the conductor said in a way that showed that she meant what she said.
"Oh, it is." Peter then thanked the conductor, before heading to his seat. As soon as the conductor could no longer see his face his smile disappeared. He sat down next to a window, and looking out the window as the train started to accelerate into the tunnel under the city of Cork, he began to think.
"I will never be able to understand how Irish people are able to be so kind to people they don't know. They always greet you with a genuine smile, and always care about what you have to say."
The train left the tunnel and sped through the countryside, through fields that were divided by old, un-mortared stone walls, which is much different to the frozen wasteland of Siberia that Peter was used to. When he saw a crumbling cottage, a reminder of Ireland's rough history in the 1840s, he simply shrugged.
"Then again, I don't really understand why most people act the way they do. Oh well."
Watching the fields pass by caused Peter to grow more and more tired, until he fell asleep, head resting on the table.
After being asleep for what felt like five minutes, Peter felt himself getting shaken awake.
"Huh? Wha... ?"
Looking up, Peter saw that it was the conductor who had woken him up.
"Wake up. We'll be pulling into Limerick Junction in 5 minutes."
Peter managed to wake up enough to thank the conductor.
"No problem. Wouldn't want you to miss that flight now, would we?" she responded to Peter's thanks.
Getting of at Limerick Junction, he waited on the platform. Looking around, he noticed there were a few other people standing on the platform with him. The pilot began to think why these people were here.
"Some probably just came in from Limerick on their way to Dublin. Some are probably going to Limerick."
His train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a train horn, signalling that his train was pulling into the bay platform. Peter, along with a few other people, got in and the small train pulled out of the station. The train accelerated through the Irish countryside before arriving in Limerick, where most of the passengers got off, while Peter and a few more continuing on. After a little while longer the train arrived at the tiny Sixmilebridge Station. He then walked to the bus station, and waited on his own for about 10 minutes for his bus to arrive.
Three hours after leaving Cork, Peter walked from the bus station to the airport and headed inside. The reason why Shannon was chosen as the stopover airport is because it is in the middle of nowhere, so it is cheaper to fly there than Dublin. Also, it's the westernmost airport in Europe, and was just within the Ilyushin's maximum range. He headed into the airport and headed to the room where he and Ivan will do their pre flight briefing.
"Привет Иван"(Hello Ivan) Peter greeted as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
"Приветственный капитан"(Hello captain) Ivan responded
"So Ivan, first thing first, what's our flightplan to Reagan?"
"Well Captain,we'll take off on Runway 24, fly west over the Atlantic Ocean, fly down along the US east coast and land on Runway 1 at Washington Ronald Reagan National Airport.
"Alright Ivan, drop the formalities. We've known each other for about 50 years. You have just as much flight experience as I do. You are in no way inferior to me. Just call me by my name please."
Ivan nodded and smiled. Peter had an odd manner of speaking that most people either couldn't understand or got offended. But Ivan understood what he meant.
They then discussed the weather, required fuel quantities and alternate airports before they headed to the Hangar where the Ilyushin was stored. The hangar itself was on the other side of the airport, away from the chaotic bustle of the main passenger terminal. Shannon Airport Management had very kindly arranged a vehicle to transport Peter and Ivan from their flight planning room in the terminal to the hangar's enormous front doors. The ground crew responsible for looking after the aircraft while it rested inside the hangar had already opened these doors, revealing the sleeping giant dozing within. There was something about seeing such a large aircraft sitting in a cold and dark state that sent Peter's heart into a flutter of excitement and wonder - even after all his years of harbouring a career in the air. How peaceful and serene the Ilyushin looked, bathed in the harsh artificial light of the fluorescent units in the ceiling of the massive building...
Peter watched Ivan ascend a small set of stairs to an open door situated underneath the front passenger entrance, before he disappeared into the aircraft, heading to the cockpit to power the aircraft up. Peter remained outside in the enormous open space of the hangar, and prepared to commence his walk-around check of the aircraft. Even given the tremendous size of Shannon Airport's largest hangar, the Ilyushin still just barely managed to fit inside the building. Peter placed his arms behind his back, strolled to the very front of the aircraft, and halted directly in front of the nose cone. Before commencing his pre-flight inspection in earnest, Peter simply listened and waited for what was about to happen. Apart from the usual clanking and buzzing of tools and the distant voices of workers which usually accompanied the inside of a hangar, there were the distinct noises of the Ilyushin being brought to life from its slumber by Ivan on the flight deck. Peter grinned like a schoolboy as electrical power was restored to the aircraft, an assumption that could be brought about by the numerous clunks of battery relays being connected followed by the whirring of transformer units from deep within its belly.
With the beast now awoken, Peter set off on a very intricate lap of the aircraft which had been committed to easily accessible memory in the thousands of other times he had conducted such a task prior to today's flight. After all, the best way to discover a fault or broken component is to lay one's eyes upon it, and the best way to do that is to physically check the exterior of the aircraft. Peter steadily made his way around the Il-86. He expertly moved his eyes over important components, ran his hands tenderly along smooth metal skin, peered into nooks, opened small flaps and inspection doors, spun engine fan blades and checked for fluid leaks in a gracefully choreographed set of movements. Like an agitated stallion, the Ilyushin would have to gain Peter's trust before he would be satisfied it was not concealing a hidden fault in some vain attempt to kill Ivan and himself. With the check nearing completion, Peter's was already starting to feel satisfied as his hand ran along the underside of the far right-hand engine; Engine number 4. Musing about the flight ahead, Peter's hand suddenly slipped across something cold and wet. Intrigued, he brought the palm of his hand closer to his eyes, which widened at the small amount of thick, black liquid coating his skin...
...Oil.
Peter sighed. Then chuckled softly. It was not at all uncommon for some of the old Kuznetsov engines to bleed oil. It didn't seem excessive, and a quick glance at the tiny seepage out of a rivet line in the engine cowling, followed by a look at the clean hangar floor, confirmed this assumption. Peter fished out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wiped the grime off his hand, and proceeded to the stairs leading into the aircraft's cabin. Once inside, Peter turned left and headed for the cockpit, which was already a hive of activity thanks to the impeccable work ethic of his faithful first officer and long-time friend. Ivan had already checked the fuel load and put in the flight plan. Peter double checked the figures and flight plan, as per procedure.
Everything was correct, so Peter tuned the radio to Shannon Ground, 121.80 Megahertz.
"Aeroflot 1917 Heavy, request IFR to Washington Reagan, ready to copy."
The controller responded, "Aeroflot 1917 Heavy, cleared to Washington Reagan as filed, Squawk 5467."
"Cleared to Washington Reagan as filed, Squawk 5467, Aeroflot 1917 Heavy."
While Peter set the transponder to 5467, Ivan contacted the ground crew.
"They're ready to tow us out of the hangar"
"Great, I'll get our Taxi Clearance." Peter responded.
"Shannon ground, Aeroflot 1917 ready for push and start, request taxi to runway 24."
"Aeroflot 1917, cleared for push and start, Taxi and hold short of Runway 24, via Taxi-ways R, U, S, contact Tower on 118.70 when ready for take-off. There are a lot of plane spotters with their binoculars and cameras trained on your Ilyushin, so no pressure."
Peter let out a small chuckle at that "Roger, Taxi and hold short Runway 24 via taxiways R, U, S, cleared for push and start. Those plane spotters are going to get serenaded by the Kuznetzovs."
Ivan contacted the ground crew and they started to tow the old vodka burner out of the hangar. Once the aircraft was out of the hangar and the ground crew backed off, Peter and Ivan started the engines. The aircraft let out a loud rumble as it started to slowly trundle towards the runway for the final time. The weather decided to give the old aircraft a fitting send off. As the Irish say, "The sun was splitting the stones". Looking out the windshield, Peter saw the planespotters, and decided to be nice. He opened his window and gave the spotters a wave. He's been in their place several times, so he knew how to give them a show. They stopped just before the runway, and Peter set the radio to 118.70 megahertz.
"Shannon Tower, Aeroflot 1917, holding short, request takeoff runway 24, IFR to Washington Reagan."
"Aeroflot 1917, cleared for takeoff runway 24, climb and maintain 3,000 feet. It's sad to see the last of these old vodka burners go. I remember when Ilyushins were a daily occurrence."
"Cleared for takeoff, climb and maintain 3,000, Aeroflot 1917. How do you think we feel?" Peter said jokingly "They were a pleasure to fly, and we'll make sure she gets treated well by the Yanks."
"I'll hold you to that."
Peter lined up with the runway and stopped.
"Flaps 1, lights on" Peter said, knowing the checklist by heart.
"Flaps set, lights set and ready to go" Ivan responded.
"Alright, TOGA."
"TOGA."
He set the thrust levers to the full power/TOGA position. The Il-86 started to slowly accelerate down the runway. The airspeed indicator passed 160 knots.
"V1" Ivan called out, followed shortly by "Rotate" as the aircraft accelerated past 170 knots.
"Rotate" Peter acknowledged.
Peter got a bad feeling in his gut as soon as the main gear left the runway
"Something's not right" he thought, as he scanned the instruments, looking for anything that was out of the ordinary.
"Positive rate, gear-"
"Keep the gear down" Peter interrupted Ivan "We're climbing far too slowly"
Ivan nodded, while Peter kept trying to find the problem. Suddenly, he spotted the problem.
"Engine 4 is overheating. Spooling back."
That seemed to work, and the engine started to cool down. Peter breathed a sigh of relief, and changed his focus from dealing with an overheating engine to getting to 3,000 feet. It all seemed to be going well, until the sound of an explosion on the right wing reached the cockpit.
The sound and percussions from the explosion carried through the metal framework of the aircraft and transmitted themselves straight into Peter's body. As his chest cavity vibrated with the reverberation of the explosion, his mind went into sensory overload. Peter could feel his face start to heat up in a sweat, and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled as they stood on end - It didn't take the barrage of wailing alarms and flashing lights on the instrument panel to tell him that something was SERIOUSLY wrong...
...He could feel it in the pit of his stomach.
Time seemed to stand still, 'Is this really happening?' he thought as the enormous metal behemoth of an aircraft started to roll steadily over to the right, despite his best efforts to wrestle its wings level again as his burning arm muscles fought against the immense and unusual forces on the control yoke. The years of training and experience ripped him away from his dazed stupor as his mind flashed through the procedures he had practiced so very many times in his recurring check flights in the flight simulator - 'Procedures!'
Peter adopted the most calm voice he could muster, given the dire situation. "Ivan, what have we got?" Peter demanded, eyes fixed forwards as he tried desperately to keep the hulking airframe from continuing its insistent roll to the right.
No response. "IVAN!" Peter tried again, his voice much more commanding.
Ivan snapped out of his stunned silence. "Uuh... Engine 4 is on fire captain, I think it has exploded!"
"Commence engine fire procedure." Peter tried to keep a level tone in the hopes of maintaining Ivan's focus on the situation before them.
"Roger!" It seemed to work. "Engine fire procedure: Identify failed engine - engine 4 is confirmed failed."
Peter nodded in agreement. "I agree."
"Engine 4 thrust lever confirm idle."
"Idle."
"Engine 4 fuel control sw-" Ivan's voice, which had begun to steady, was cut off by a sudden, and violent lurch further to the right as the aircraft disobeyed the commands of its captain.
"Damn!" Peter cursed as his eyes darted across the instrument panel in front of him, searching for information. The aircraft's attitude indicator was alarmingly sideways, rolling through 45 degrees of bank angle. But what was perhaps the most frightening instrument readout of all, the altimeter needle began to unwind itself below 500 feet in altitude. Now a new, terrifying new noise began to blare out above the multitude of different alarms, all demanding each pilots' attention - a mechanical, yet urgent sounding computerized voice shouting orders no pilot ever wanted to hear in reality...
"...TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL UP!"
Peter's heart sank as his attitude indicator began showing even crazier roll angles than before, carrying itself well beyond 60 degrees of right bank. The altimeter began unwinding itself even faster, the needle racing past 300 feet in altitude.
"TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL UP!"
He grimaced, and with all the strength he could bring his groaning arm and leg muscles to rally, he slammed the control yoke hard over to the left and pushed his leg heavily against the left rudder pedal. "Come on!" He pleaded, hoping in vain to right the crippled metal bird struggling to stay aloft.
"TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL UP!"
"Oh god!" Peter could hear Ivan scream. It was evident that he knew what was coming as well.
"TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL UP!"
The horizon outside the windshield had disappeared. Peter only saw trees. And grass. And dirt. All were rapidly rising up to meet his watering eyes.
"TERRAIN TER-"
A momentary noise of glass breaking and metal tearing apart. A brilliant noise unlike anything Peter had ever heard before.
And then darkness...
