'Honey, listen carefully,' Tony instructed, removing the mask from his face and grabbing her elbow to yell into her ear. 'I want you to stay here till this plane comes to a complete stop, then you're to get out through that door right up there. Don't take anythin', just run.'

'Where are you going?' she demanded, clutching his hand.

'I'm gonna go see if there's somethin' I can do to help,' he explained, squeezing her hand encouragingly. 'I've been trained as an engineer, sweetheart.'

'What happened?' she asked as he unfastened his seatbelt, grabbing the back of the seat in front.

'I'm guessin' we were hit by some missile,' he replied, confirming her suspicions. 'There was an impact before the explosion. Sit tight.' Throwing her a final smile he climbed out of the row, working his way to the front of the plane. Twice the powerful suction nearly claimed him as he released a seat to reach for the next one in what appeared to be a never ending chain. Mayhem met him once he succeeded in pushing the cockpit door open.

'Mayday mayday, this is Alitalia flight 3993, do you read us?' the copilot repeated, while the pilot struggled with the controls. The dials spun around, two red lights flashing while the numerous warning beeps nearly succeeded in drowning out the wind's shriek. The plane shook as it entered the full brunt of the storm, sinking fast.

'Tony Almeida, Counter Terrorist Unit,' he introduced himself. 'What can I do to help?'

'You got an engineering degree?' snapped the pilot.

'Aha,' he replied.

The pilot spared him a second glance. 'Fine. I have no idea of the exact nature of the damage we suffered, but it's extensive. We're sinking. I'm gonna attempt a landing, but I can't locate the undercarriage. It might be there, it might not. We'd do a lot better with the wheels.'

'You want me to release it manually?' Tony guessed.

'Yes. There's a crank. Just turn it. It won't be easy.'

'If we still got the undercarriage, I'll get it down,' he promised, leaving the cockpit to struggle over to a door, entering a lift that mercifully worked, depositing him to the unprotected lower deck. A gust of wind blew him halfway across the deck, sheer desperation enabling his fingers to grasp a lever and hang onto it for dear life. Focus, Almeida. You gotta get to that crank. Look round and find something you can secure yourself to, and do so immediately. We're definitely going down fast. His eyes roamed over the area, pausing upon a net, which he ripped from the wall and secured round his waist, crawling forward till he reached the crank. The pilot was right – it took all his strength to turn it. Fighting dizziness in the rapidly changing pressure he turned the crank, refusing to succumb to despair. Despite lacking the available statistics, he was aware their chances of survival were low. Thoughts of Michelle and his parents kept his arm straining against the crank long after he would normally have given up. Guilt at his family's presence tore away at him as he was rewarded by the mechanism lowering. Once the crank would turn no further he pulled himself back to the wall and called the cockpit on a internal phone, determined to do all he could to aid a safe descent.

'You done well,' the pilot told him. 'It would increase our chances if we could get rid of more of our fuel. The starboard fuel tank refused to respond…'

'I'm onto it,' he replied, working his way to the controls of the tank, opening them. Unsure whether his actions had any effect he tightened the net to his waist and crawled forward to the large hole gaping in the back of the plane and peered out, noting two steady streaks of fuel leaking to the ground. You done it, Almeida. Now you better pray none of that gets in the engines… He worked his way back into the dubious safety of the aircraft straining his aching muscles, reaching the shelter of the lift shaft seconds before a bone jarring impact. The plane shook violently, his body slammed against the ladder, his head impacting with a sickening crack. His fingers relaxed their grip on the rungs and he fell to the floor, unconscious.

Marco Almeida unfastened his seatbelt and rose to his feet before the plane reached a complete halt, pulling his wife behind him. Noting his daughter-in-law's dazed expression he reached for her, shaking her shoulder. 'Michelle, are you hurt?' he questioned, unfastening her belt. 'We gotta get out of here!'

Michelle nodded, forcing herself to focus through the waves of pain emanating from her leg. Pushing the front seat off her knee she attempted to rise, collapsing back onto her seat in tears. 'I…'

Marco bent down and lifted her into his arms, muttering soothing words in Spanish as he followed his wife to the exit their stewardess was forcing open. He made certain she was the first one down the chute, putting Michelle behind her. A nagging worry made him turn aside, slipping past the remaining passengers to their bags, he collected their passports and Tony's laptop. The year he spent in the Mexican army, albeit involuntarily, had taught him a thing or two about explosions, and the fact that the impact preceded it wasn't lost on him. The people who were responsible for firing on their aircraft were likely to show up in the near future, and as it was stretching the realms of possibility to imagine one of the official governments of the countries they flew over had been responsible, it was safe to assume they were surrounded by hostiles. Hostiles in that part of the world tended to have one thing in common, a hatred of the US, a hatred that worried him as he returned to the chute to join his wife and Michelle. 'Where's Tony?' he demanded, dismayed to see them shake their heads.

'I haven't seen him,' his wife replied, tears in her eyes. 'Marco, you don't think…'

'No, of course not,' he cried, shaking his head. 'How's Michelle?'

'I'm fine,' she replied, wiping the tears that refused to stop flowing. 'Where's Tony?'

'I'll go find him. How's your leg?' He knelt down swiftly, expertly feeling the bone. 'Michelle, that's broken. Wait a moment.' He searched through the chaotic milling of dazed passengers, the cacophony of languages reminding him of his mother's reading about the confusion of languages at the Tower of Babel. Seizing a thin piece of jagged metal he returned with it, handing it to her. 'Don't attempt to walk on that leg. Lean on that. I want the two of you to start moving due north, that way,' he explained, 'right over to those hills and to remain there till we join you. Go now.'

Rita Almeida cast him an alarmed look. 'Without Tony? Marco, you don't think…' she began, her voice trailing off as she noted the fear in his face.

'They're coming, alright. Take this. Bury it once you're outa sight.' He handed her the laptop. 'I'm going to find Tony.'

They set off, Michelle leaning on her makeshift walking stick as she attempted to hurry, his wife carrying the laptop under her arm. Chewing his lip he returned to the irreparably damaged plane, searching the passengers in desperation without a sight of his son. 'Tony,' he called, examining the row of injured laid out a few yards from the plane under the direction of the captain. 'TONY. TONY!' His voice carried over the wailing of the injured but no one spared him a glance, preoccupied with their own misery. Praying for divine assistance he returned to the chute, climbing upwards with difficulty. The cabin was deserted, twisted wreckage of unbolted seats and one section of dropped overhead locker almost blocking his path towards the cockpit.

'Mayday mayday, this is Alitalia flight 3993. Do you read me?' the copilot droned.

Marco paused in the doorway, frowning. 'They're not responding are they?' he questioned, seeing a defeated shake of the head from the junior pilot. 'Did we make Tajikistan?' he questioned hopefully.

'No sir, we're in northern Pakistan, somewhere,' the man explained hopelessly. 'We're slightly off course due to the storm. Only slightly, sir. Rescue teams should find us quite soon. Our beacon is working.'

Marco nodded. 'Look, we were hit by some missile. Don't you think you should get the people moving, hide them till the rescue arrives?' he suggested.

'Mamma mia,' the copilot cried, wringing his hands. 'You're right, we're wasting time.' He rose, preparing to rush from the plane, delayed by Marco's grip on his arm.

'Wait a minute. My son came in to help you. Where did you send him?'

The pilot gave him directions to the shaft and he worked his way over to it, halted by the broken door that refused to budge from the inside, leaving him no possibility of squeezing past. He was forced to return to the chute and slide out, working his way round the wreckage to attempt to find a hole large enough to crawl into. Just as he noticed the gaping hole left by the missile he was surrounded and slammed into the plane.

'Kneel down. Hands on your heads. Anyone moves, I'll shoot,' yelled a turbaned man, his untrimmed beard waving in the wind. The babble ceased, the passengers gaping in terror as the speaker was surrounded by dozens of heavily armed men. 'Are you people stupid? Kneel down, or I'll shoot.' He raised his rifle, firing a burst into the air. It had the desired effect of halting the disorganized group. Everyone knelt where they stood, begging for mercy in a variety of languages. 'Shut up,' yelled the leader, waving his rifle in the direction of the hills. He snapped an order to a similarly attired man who set off in the direction Michelle and Rita had just taken, followed by six men.

'Alright, I want one line here, in front of me. You'll join the line when I point to you. Let's move!'

To his dismay the man pointed at him first, throwing him a no nonsense expression. Marco moved over to where the man indicated he should kneel, a rifle trained on him. 'Hands on your head,' snapped the leader, turning to indicate another passenger should join him. 'One movement, you're shot,' he snapped, turning momentarily to stare at Marco, reading some challenge from his expression. 'Where are you from, asshole?' he snapped, his American accent contrasting sharply with his attire.

'Mexico,' Marco replied, seething, his mind on the conference Tony had attended. It appeared he had a living, breathing example of his speech holding them all captive! Worry for Tony's well being gnawed at him. 'My son is inside, he's hurt…' He rose, receiving a tremendous blow to his back.

'I won't warn you again, Mexican,' the turbaned man snapped, kicking him in the ribs. 'We got enough people here to ignore the wounded.' He turned down the line, snapping at several of the more defiant men.

Michelle paused, pulling Rita to a halt. 'Did you hear something?' she whispered, sure she had heard a movement over the howling wind.

'No, but that doesn't mean much, in this storm. That laptop contains classified information, right?' Michelle nodded, her eyes searching the terrain. 'We should bury it now.'

'You're right,' she agreed, sitting down with difficulty, moaning aloud at the pain in her leg. Tony's mother took her makeshift walking stick and dug into the rock hard soil, shaking her head at the slow progress.

'It feels as though this place was compacted,' she grumbled, removing chunks of rock the size of her fist. She worked fast while Michelle scanned the surroundings, uneasy in the silence. Rita glanced at her before she continued her digging, her fingers rubbed raw. They slid the laptop on top of some rocks that refused to be moved beside a half gnawed bush, returning the soil seconds before a bolt was pulled back and five men surrounded them.

Michelle knew for a fact that she had never heard any of the languages they spoke, but the rifle waved towards the plane left her in no doubt as to their instructions. Rita pulled her to her feet and handed her the chunk of metal to lean on, neither of them daring to glance at their hastily reburied hole. Apparently the men mistook them for two females determined to walk home rather than board another plane in their lives and herded them unsuspectingly back towards the group. It took all her training not to show dismay at the sight that greeted them. All uninjured passengers knelt in a single row before a group of turbaned men, hands on their heads.

Their eyes scanned the group, noting Tony's absence with sinking hearts as they were marched over to the leader. He glared at them, turning to Michelle. 'Why did you run? You're not waiting for a helicopter rescue?'

'You gotta be kidding!' she exclaimed, playing the frightened passenger card for all she was worth. 'You think I wanna get in a helicopter after this? We're gonna catch a train.'

'There aren't any trains round here,' the man replied, waving a rifle towards the queue. 'Join the rest. Now then,' he snapped, as they hurried to kneel beside Marco, 'I want to see your passports, see who you are. I'm gonna allow you to return to the plane to collect them in two's with my men beside you. Anyone trying anything will get shot, and die slowly. Move it.'

Tony stirred in the dark, his head pounding, his neck wrapped dangerously round the ladder. Multicolored stars graced the broken interior of the plane, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut. Oil dripped on his hair running down the inside of his t-shirt. Judging by the wet patch he felt, he had been there quite some time. Focus, Almeida. The plane obviously landed. Michelle. Oh God, where's Michelle? She would've come to find you, were she able to. Thoughts of her hurt or stuck in wreckage got him moving. He withdrew his head, groaning at the pain, and knelt in the pool of oil, resting momentarily. Faint sounds reached his ears, not the hysterical wailing of dismayed passengers he would have expected but harsh orders and silence. What the hell's going on out there? That's not the pilot, or any rescue. Chewing his lip he crawled along the shattered deck, circling twisted piles of wreckage until he reached a hole torn near the fuel tank. Straining his eyes he peered outside, shocked into silence.

A turbaned man appeared to hold the passengers at gunpoint, opening what appeared to be passports. He examined a red one, shook his head and moved along to the next passenger, a golden haired woman dressed in a pale blue sweater. Her passport attracted longer scrutiny. He said something Tony was unable to hear and moved a few feet back, raising his rifle. No, don't do it! His single shot blew her brains backwards, spattering them on the plane. Tony pressed a hand over his mouth, his stomach heaving.

'Are there any more Americans?' demanded the man, glaring at the row of horrified passengers. No one uttered a sound. 'Alright, have it your way. I'm checking everyone.'

On your feet, Almeida. You gotta find some passports, any passports, and immediately. Tony climbed the ladder, ignoring the world spinning round him and forced the door open a few more inches, squeezing into a battered cabin. He found the dead at the back of the plane near the hole, just where he had expected them to be, several of them strapped into their seats crushed beneath the weight of overheard compartments and other seats. Forcing his emotions aside he rifled through handbags and pockets, selecting a handful of undamaged ones. Hurry, Almeida. They're approaching mom and Michelle. He moved to the chute, approaching the queue with raised hands.

'Rita, have you got your passport?' Marco demanded, his whisper harsh in the silence. She nodded wordless, her fingers wrapped round his. He dug his fingers into her pocket and took it, opening it to the page that contained her photo.

'What are you doing?' she managed to whisper.

'Querida, I want you to know that meeting you at college was the best thing that ever happened to me,' he told her, opening his own passport. 'From that first day when you made that guy move, when you said it's your seat and sat next to me, my world changed. I left my family, my country, everything I ever loved and cared about just to be with you, and I want you to know I'd do it all again.'

'Marco,' she began, terrified as he found his own picture.

'They're in a hurry, sweetheart, they haven't got time to hang around. They won't notice the name and sex,' he muttered, sliding his pen knife under the picture.

'No, I won't let you,' she gasped. 'Marco, they're not mad at you, they're mad at us. You can't…'

'You're my responsibility, Rita,' he reminded her.

'No. I can't take that. Give it to Michelle. She's so young…'

Marco Almeida chewed his lip, gazing at his daughter-in-law who stood ashen faced beside his wife, his heart divided. 'We'll go together,' his wife whispered to him, a hand on his arm. Just like we always do.'

'Stop' ordered a voice and Tony paused, his hands raised above his head, his pockets bulging with passports. An icy wind whipped the dust from the rocks into his eyes, his head pounded and he fought to ignore the sickening spin of his surroundings as he awaited the arrival of the leader. 'Why the hell are you not in the queue?'

'I just climbed out,' he explained in heavily accented English, nodding his head at the back of the plane.

His answer appeared to satisfy the man. 'Get into the queue,' he snapped, shoving him over to his father. 'Don't move.' He left them abruptly, continuing his search of the passengers.

'Papa, don't do it. I got a coupla passports,' he whispered, blinking back tears at the sight of the open documents. 'Here.' He handed over a New Zealand passport and two Italian ones.

'Tony, those people…'

'They're dead,' he hissed. 'Hurry up, Papa.'

His father nodded, removing the pictures and sliding their own over the gaps while he attempted to shield him from direct view of their captors. A tiny piece of chewing gum stuck them in, certainly not well enough to pass any kind of official scrutiny, but enough to pass muster by the men. Tony thanked God his father never failed to take gum or chocolates with him, almost as though he sensed he might need it.

'Are there any other Americans?' he asked, watching his father anxiously.

'I think so,' his mother whispered, clasping his hand as though to make certain he was indeed unharmed. 'That woman with the baby looks like she's going to run…'

He nodded. 'Tell Michelle to get her passport,' he instructed, patting his pocket. 'I got another two.'

Eyes blazing with rage, Tony watched the men move further down the row, praying there were no more Americans his family had overlooked, aware their omission would mean an instant death sentence. He breathed a sigh of relief as they approached the end of the row, glancing at the passport his father had fixed for their fellow Americans.

'Germany, ah,' the man questioned, collecting the passports without a second glance, nodding in satisfaction. 'Good. We have quite an interesting group today!'

Trembling slightly, Michelle handed over her New Zealand passport, praying the gum would hold and the man would not question her obvious lack of that accent. The passport was collected with a nod of approval and the man moved over to his mother, taking her borrowed passport with a frown. 'Another Italian,' he muttered, showing more interest in his father's documents. 'Mexico. Well well. And you have a Green Card, you work in the States.'

'I work in the States for money, my family lives at home in MEXICO,' Marco insisted, his eyes showing no fear as the man studied him. His passport was removed without further comment and the man turned to Tony.

'Passport.'

Tony handed over his passport with the slightest trace of fear on his face, aware a bold expression would raise the man's suspicions.

'More spaghetti,' the man remarked, accepting it without further comment. 'Now then, we're going to be going on a short walk. We don't have paved sidewalks as you decadent westerners have, so we're not bothering with the wounded. Anyone unable to keep up is staying behind.' He moved over to the wounded, removing his rifle.

'Wait,' Tony snapped, his order instantaneous. 'You can't mean that. Let's see,' he left the queue, hands raised, removing a passport from the hands of a terrified woman. 'She's Canadian. You haven't got a Canadian yet. Why leave her, when you can get another country to listen to your cause? You got a Singaporean, and,' he paused, his heart aching as he crouched beside a severely bruised child, 'a Finn. You don't have any quarrel with these countries, yet! You don't wanna annoy three extra countries needlessly. Your best move would be to organize us to carry these people right now.'

'You talk too much,' the leader snapped, glaring at him. 'Alright, pick one person.' He waited while Tony gathered the child in his arms, watching four young men selected to carry the injured women. 'Let's go. My men have their guns trained on you. Move one foot off the track, you'll be shot.' The last remark was addressed to Tony who swayed under the weight of the child. They formed a queue, Tony with his mother beside him, struggling under the weight of the child, his father directly behind, helping Michelle, the remainder of the passengers behind them. 'Alright, we move. Say goodbye to your plane.' The leader paused, grabbing the pilot. 'We're aware rescue will arrive soon. You can deliver a note to them, a note to the western world. This is our land, our sky. We don't want you here - you or your planes.' He aimed his rifle, blowing the pilot's brains away, before he placed a typewritten letter in his hand. 'Put him in the cockpit, in the pilot chair,' he ordered harshly, waving his rifle at the queue. 'Let's go, people.'