"We've lost the starboard engine, Captain. Uncontained engine failure. We're losing fuel and hydraulic fluid."
Martin Crieff swore under his breath, hands flying over the dials and buttons, trying to fix it. To do something, anything.
"Douglas, can't you do something?" Martin pleaded at him, eyes large and fearful. The First officer shook his head and Martin's eyes widened. Douglas had always had a master-plan, a stroke of genius tucked up his sleeve.
"There's nothing, Martin. We're going down and there's nothing we can do to stop it."
Think, Martin, think. No, there was nothing for it. They were going to have to land. The nearest airport was thirty miles away in Labruguière, and they wouldn't have the time to get there safely. They were going to have to make an emergency landing.
"Douglas, put out a distress signal please."
"Yes sir." The First Officer struggled to find a frequency, cursing under his breath. "Got it!" He exclaimed after what felt like hours.
"Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Castres-Mazamet Centre. Golf Tango India, Lockheed McDonnell 312, uncontrolled engine failure, loss of hydraulic fluid and fuel. I say again Golf Tango India Lockheed McDonnell 312, uncontrolled engine failure, forced landing thirty miles west of Labruguière. 4000 feet descending heading 180."
"Golf Tango India, roger that. Emergency services to Lamouzie. Good luck."
Flicking off to the radio, the two pilots looked at each other.
"Down to three thousand feet, Captain. She's listing to starboard."
Martin nodded, pressing the intercom as he struggled with the controls.
"Arthur, Imogen, prepare for an emergency landing. You have less than five minutes. It's going to be a bumpy one."
An uncontained engine failure meant a lack of vital equipment, such as landing gears. Add to that that they were running blind, and it was almost certain that the (thus far) contained fire would spread upon landing and engulf GERT-I.
"Carolyn is going to kill us," Martin muttered, trying to distract himself from the fact that if anything they did did not go to plan (as much as an engine failure could anyway), they would not survive long enough for Carolyn to kill them.
"We're losing rudder control. Losing altitude. Two thousand feet. One thousand five hundred."
Martin took a deep breath, trying to level the plane as much as possible in order to make the landing as safe as it could be.
Imogen knew something was wrong long before Martin made the announcement about the crash.
"Why don't you go sit down, Arthur? We'll be landing soon, and there's only a few small things to do."
Arthur looked up at her, his green eyes a little hurt. Ever since their trip to Florida, he had tried his best to take care of her. Imogen placed a comforting hand on his elbow.
"I'll be quicker. Go on, Arthur. I won't be a minute," she smiled gently, ushering him to his seat before rushing to secure the drinks trolley. Locking the cabinets, Imogen chanced a look at Arthur, who was staring out of the window in horror.
"Imogen?"
"Yes Arthur?" She kept her voice as calm as possible.
He turned to her, green eyes holding a haunted expression.
"We're going to crash, aren't we?"
She thought for an answer, something that wouldn't terrify him, yet tell him of the dangers, when the intercom crackled into life.
"Arthur, Imogen, prepare for an emergency landing. You have less than five minutes. It's going to be a bumpy one."
She sighed. So much for being calm and staying in control. Martin sounded traumatised.
"Yes, Arthur, we are. Come on, brace position. I'm sure we'll be fine."
Hurrying to prepare for landing, the copper haired stewardess slid into the seat next to Arthur, trying to fasten her seatbelt with shaking hands. Arthur reached over to help her with it, and their eyes met. It was then that Imogen's bravado slipped.
"Are we going to die?" She whispered.
"No," he stated firmly. "Skip and Douglas have done this before. We'll be fine."
Arthur seemed fairly confident in the pilots' ability, and it put Imogen at ease a little. Enough to re-erect the barriers around herself, in any case. No, they would be fine, and things would work themselves out. It always did at MJN, somehow. They had more lives than a cat. Hadn't their trip to Florida proved that? Imogen was racked with guilt over the event, but the crew had treated her no differently, besides being somewhat gentler and ensuring she ate regularly. Arthur was his usual chirpy self, and it seemed that that little episode had been placed firmly behind them.
Imogen could see the ground approaching them at a rather alarming rate, flames licking the side of the plane, and motioned for Arthur to assume the CAA approved brace position. After she had done so herself (head on her knees and arms above her head), she reached one hand out for Arthur's, gripping it tightly.