A/N: Sorry for the delay. School matters and writer's block. I'll try a more consistent schedule later. Read and review!

"I think that went well," said Rosie. She, along with the rest of the press corps, was placing her bag into the overhead luggage rack of the Air Afghanistan Boeing 777. As a general rule of thumb, journalists were usually seated in the back of the plane while the VIPs occupied the front. In this case, the Trade Ministry delegates and influential members of the Löwe-Wodarczyk Group were relaxing in first class, the rest of the German investors were seated comfortably in business class, while the press and the other passengers sweated it out in economy class.

"Of course it went well," replied Carter. "It's often on the way home that accidents happen. Wake me up when we land."

Rosie shrugged and returned to her laptop. The five encrypted files were still up on the screen, and she had been wondering if there was a way to break the code. She double-clicked the first file—

And out popped half-a-dozen icons on the screen.

Rosie was surprised. This was a new kind of encryption system she was up against, something that possibly opened up at only a certain time. She proceeded cautiously. What if this was a cleverly disguised virus? What if these files were just nothing? What if, what if? She opened the first document.

It was the Stinger bomb schematic. Rosie relaxed, but only a little bit. So Mamnoff was really involved in something evil, all right, but what?

The second document was a photograph of a Boeing 777. Handmade notations cluttered the picture. The writing was too small to read, even with the zoom feature. But that was just the beginning. The rest of the documents were objectives on how the bombing of the plane must proceed. All of them were written by a single author: W. D. Was it a pseudonym? she asked herself. Or the person's real name?

Rosie was suddenly struck with a feeling of helplessness. She knew what was about to happen, yet she couldn't do anything about it. The plane could blow up any minute, and with it the hopes of many foreign investors. Whoever this W. D. guy is, she told herself, he must be sick.

She slowly reached for her bag and placed it on her lap. The gun inside felt heavy. She checked her watch. Quarter to one. They would be over the Ukraine by that time.

Behind her, in the last row, the man checked his watch too. Timing was of the essence in this operation. This time, no evidence must be left behind. It should be as if the plane simply vanished into thin air. A single second could mean the difference between vanishing into the Black Sea and landing on the Crimea.

His decision was made. In half an hour, Air Afghanistan Flight 552 would fly into oblivion.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking. If you would kindly look out of your windows, you will see the wonderful waters of the Black Sea, whose beaches are very popular this time of the year. The piece of land you can see on the left side of the plane is the Crimean Peninsula, home to some of Ukraine's finest cities…"

The man smiled to himself. Everyone onboard except him knew the events that were about to happen. He checked his watch again. Time to do the job.

Suddenly, a man walked into economy class. The man recognized his as the Bundesluftmarschall, or Federal Air Marshal. Ever since the September 11 attacks, all airlines were required to have air marshals onboard their aircraft. The man knew that German marshals were deadly efficient when fighting terrorism, but only if they knew that there would be a crime. And he wouldn't give them that luxury. He reached for his bag under the seat in front of him and slowly retrieved his pistol.

Time slowed down for the man. His eyes locked on to the aiming reticule as soon as it entered his peripheral vision. The marshal, immediately recognizing the distinct shape of a suppressed pistol, began to reach for his own weapon. And then the man pulled back the hammer and fired.

The bullet entered the marshal's shoulder, and he shouted in pain. The man hoped that it would distract the people while he set the bomb's timer secretly in the cargo hold.

He was distracted by three loud noises. His first thought was that the marshal had managed to fire back at him. But, after thinking it over, he found the angle to be completely erroneous. There was only one rational explanation for this: there was another air marshal onboard. And then he saw her, on the left side of the second row. He fired back three rounds in response.

Rosie knew that she was seriously outmatched. The enemy had a USP .45, which had a twelve-round magazine, compared to her Colt M1911, with only seven rounds. And she had just wasted three of those rounds. The only good news was that both of them were using subsonic rounds, or else they would have already torn the plane apart.

The man tried to open a hatch leading to the cargo hold and watch the aisle at the same time. It was easier said than done. Finally, he cracked open the hatch and descended into the dark depths.

"Was ist dat?" asked a passenger. What was that?

"A probable hijacker," replied Rosie. "The marshal needs help. Is there anyone here with medical experience?"

"I can help," replied the passenger. "I'm a doctor."

"Any experience with gunshot wounds?"

"You're talking to a former field surgeon of the Bundeswehr," he replied, lifting the marshal to an empty seat. "I think I can manage."

"Where do you think did he go?" asked Carter.

"The cargo hatch in the back. It's the only place where he has access to the hold without the risk of discovery."

The cargo hold was dark, with only a few emergency lights to break the gloom. There was a small passageway between the rows of cargo boxes. There wasn't an immediately obvious place for someone to plant a bomb.

Three shots rang out. "Accept our fates," said the man. "Let us all go out of this world honorably and allow me to continue my work."

"What about the others?" asked Carter.

"Sacrifices for the Radiant Future."

"What's your name?"

"My name is irrelevant, but my cause is not." He then fired three shots at random before making a break for it. Behind him, shots rang out. He felt a vibration in his pocket.

"What is your current status?" asked the voice at the other end. It sounded hollow, distant.

"I am near the objective, but I am being followed."

"Are they a threat?"

"Yes, sir, but I have lost them for the time being. The package is ready. Farewell."

The man opened a black case marked "diplomatic papers" and activated the unit. He punched in a few numbers and then closed the case. But that was the easy part. Now he had to defend the case. The bomb had only one weakness, but once exploited, the bomb would become impotent. He ejected the gun's clip and inserted a full one.

"Did you see him?"

"I'm lucky just to see myself in this light."

The barrel of a Russian pistol glinted in the weak light provided by the wire-mesh lamps in the cargo hold. The man fired. The pistol pulled back, and then another gun returned fire. Three shots pierced the case, with the third going passing through the plastic and foam and hitting the man's hip.

Two women stepped out into the light. The man held up his arms and said, "Don't shoot, don't shoot," while reaching for a thin string in his pocket. Suddenly, the one with the Russian pistol reached for his mouth.

"What the f—" And then she released her grip, her hand clutching a bloody tooth, along with the cyanide pill. So much for the ultimate sacrifice, he thought.

"Check the case," the woman told her partner.

Opening the plastic box, they saw a neat bullet hole through the timer's liquid crystal display. The time was stuck at one second.

"Are we lucky or what?"